


In the Space Between Our Lips

by HufflepuffWarrior



Series: Forever and Always [1]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst and Feels, Arranged Marriage, F/M, Fluff, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Sexytimes, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Smut, modern girl in middle-earth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-20
Updated: 2018-07-15
Packaged: 2019-04-05 05:22:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 104,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14037087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HufflepuffWarrior/pseuds/HufflepuffWarrior
Summary: He sits up, a king from on high, about to strike an enemy down."We cannot simply let you roam about the city," he goes on. "We will present you as a noblewoman, a princess from a faraway realm. You have come here to forge an alliance with us in blood and name, and we have opened our arms for you and welcomed you as one of our own. Nobody will be told of the truth, until due time. But until then, we will hide you in plain sight, and we will not hear even a word of complaint from you."You swallow.A princess?"But—""You will marry my son Thorin, and you will do so without putting a toe out of line."Your mouth falls open."What?"





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey everyone! This is my first attempt at posting a work, and recently I have tripped over my own two feet and fallen head over heels in love with none other than Thorin Oakenshield, hence the second person POV fanfic. Sue me, he's gorgeous! 
> 
> Anyway, I don't own the hunk, sadly, he belongs to Tolkien *sigh* and this is just a work of fiction. A weird rendition of the 'Modern Girl in Middle-earth' trope, if you will. 
> 
> All and any mistakes are mine, and many thanks to my beta, who is my sister, and shall go unnamed on her own wish. And don't judge too harshly, English isn't my native tongue. I'd love kudos, and maybe a few comments wouldn't hurt, either. I do love constructive criticism!

"From a world without magic?" 

King Thrain's voice booms from above you, from where he sits on the high stone throne. The throne room is massive, and cavernous, like every other room in this Mountain, judging from how they'd looked when you'd passed them on the way here. The ceiling is so high it's lost in darkness, and the long, slender passageway that's suspended a thousand feet into the air and leads to the throne sends you reeling. Don't these people have the concept of railings in this place? A slip off that ledge would cost you your life. The throne itself, along with the passageway and all the pillars, flows deep, rich emerald green, made of cold, hard marble. The glittering gem set into its back sends off rays of white light, and it somehow comforts you, easing your breath slightly as you nod.

"Yes, my lord."

He leans back, frowning into his graying beard. The crown on his head gleams a dark gold, sparking in the light coming from the misted windows spiraling behind the throne. There's three people next to him, two on one side and the other on another. Two are male, one female. The woman is looking at you curiously, the royal purple of her dress glinting in the dim light. Even she has a beard, but a light one, and it rather suits her strong-boned face. She manages to pull it off and look pretty. Beautiful, almost. The others, clearly her brothers—so they're the king's children —both studiously ignore you, looking at the king.

Dwarves. They're all dwarves. And if there are dwarves, there must be elves, and men, too. And how were these people all taller than you? Had you shrunk while falling into this place? Into Middle-earth, according to the gruff guard who'd escorted you into this room to speak with the king. He'd refused to answer any of the other questions you'd thrown his way, and had merely glowered and scowled.

It seems to be a common expression around here.

The king isn't, though—he's looking at you appraisingly, almost critically. You can practically see the gears turning in his quick mind, assessing, deducing, weighing the risks, the pros and the cons.

"And have you any memory of the world you emerged from?"

You hesitate. Looking back makes it hard to breathe—you had left a whole life behind. You were glad suddenly that you hadn't given your heart to anyone, and that you had sparse family at best. Your parents had died months ago, and a disappearance like this would have destroyed them. 

You don't even know how this happened. You had been walking along in the woods behind your little house, having heard a sound, like someone was moving around. Suddenly your feet had tripped over something that hadn't been there mere moments before, and instead of sprawling onto solid ground, you'd found yourself spinning through the dark, through a tear in the universe, and had landed here. The Lonely Mountain. What had these people called it? 

Erebor. 

Right. Not that you cared all too much, anyway.

"I do," you admit. "I remember everything about my life."

He sighs. "And how long has it been?"

You swallow. "Twenty-six years," you say, hesitantly. 

A murmur ripples along the assembled. The king's dark brows lift nearly into his hairline. His thick fingers are tapping idly on the throne's stone armrests.

"I see," he says. "And I assume in your world you have already come of age."

You swallow again. "Yes, I have."

"And what family did you leave behind?"

"None."

"An intended?"

"None."

"Hmm," is all he says. He's looking at you critically, as a scientist might look at a particularly interesting and unknown specimen of bacteria — not with kindness or benevolence, but calculating, wondering how you might benefit him. 

If you do, then you will be experimented upon.

And if you don't, then you'll be disposed of.

"I'm sorry," you say, losing patience. "But I don't see what I'm doing here."

There's a slight cough, and you locate the source as the young man standing next to the throne, to the king's left. Broad, like the king himself, and bearing an unmistakable resemblance to him as well. Same dark hair, strong chin, watchful eyes. His are blue, like pure flame. They flicker to you for a brief second, and a slight smirk tilts his lips before he turns his focus back to his father. 

"You landed here, if I'm not mistaken," says the king. "Before the gates of our realm."

"Yes," you say. "But—"

"That does," cuts in Thrain, "give me as king the right to decide what to do with you."

Your jaw drops. "What? But I'm not even a part of this world!"

"Be that as it may," he counters, "there is no way to send you back, at least not one we have the knowledge of. As a result, you must stay here, in Erebor, as long as we deem fit."

You bristle, standing straight. "Why don't you just turn me out? Send me away?"

There's a pause.

Your eyes clear as realization suffuses you. "Of course," you sigh. "Of course—you don't want anyone else to know I'm not from this world."

"You would be an... asset," says the king. "And not only to us."

You fold your arms adamantly. "But I'm human," you say. "And you're all... not."

His eyes spark. "Ingenious deduction," he says dryly. "But it matters not. We cannot let you leave, lest you be taken in by someone less hospitable by I."

You hold back a snort with great difficulty. 

"Why not just send me to the men? They're my..." _Species? Race?_ "Kin," you say finally. 

"While that may be," he says, "You did not land before their gates. That does give us jurisdiction over your person."

"Why not just kill me and be done with it?" you demand, a tad testily. They don't seem to be above the deed, the lot of them, believing they had complete control over your whole life just because you'd landed five feet away from their ridiculously huge gates. 

"Ruthless as you may think us to be, we are not barbarians," says the king calmly. "You will, and must, stay here."

You sniff haughtily. "As a denizen?"

He smiles grimly. "No, not a denizen. Anything but; although, you will not leave these halls." He sits up, a king from on high, about to strike an enemy down. 

"We cannot simply let you roam about the city," he goes on. "We will present you as a noblewoman, a princess from a faraway realm. You have come here to forge an alliance with us in blood and name, and we have opened our arms for you and welcomed you as one of our own. Nobody will be told of the truth, until due time. But until then, we will hide you in plain sight, and we will not hear even a word of complaint from you."

You swallow. _A princess?_ "But—"

"You will marry my son Thorin, and you will do so without putting a toe out of line."

Your mouth falls open. 

" _What_?"

Both your and the prince's voices echo around the room in unison. He's gaping at his father, clearly not having expected this, his hands balled into fists, every inch a rebellious prince. He steps forward, blue eyes wide with disbelief. His brother and sister are gaping similarly, and their resemblance is evident in their expressions. 

"I don't even know her," he snaps, and despite being his son, his voice is deeper than the king's, more rich. "And you want me to—" He whips around and glares at you, as if this is your fault. You gaze back at him, helplessly. Marry him? You have to marry him? No way. This is not happening.

"Your place, Thorin," snaps the king. "Not a word."

You swallow hard. "I can't," you say desperately. "I don't—"

"You can, and you will," snarls the king. "Think beyond yourselves, and see this is for a cause much bigger than the two of you."

Your eyes well against your will, and you force the tears down, tucking the feelings away for later, when you're alone. You swallow again, trying to regain your composure.

"But..." You lick your lips, your throat suddenly dry. "What if you find a way for me to go back...?"

"I do not think we ever will," he says. "This has never happened before." 

"But," you say again, your voice weak, "I'm human, what will everyone think?"

"You are tall enough to pass for a dwarrowdam," he says, waving a hand dismissively. "As for your lack of dwarven traits, we can pass you off as half-human. Still of royal blood."

You gaze at him helplessly, fighting back tears. "Couldn't you just let me go?" you whisper.

His eyes finally soften. "We cannot," he says, almost regretfully. "This is necessary. For your benefit and ours. Do you accept?"

It's not a request. It's a demand, an order. A command. He's a king, and kings must, no matter how you wanted to break down and say no, be obeyed. You bow your head in submission finally, feeling your world cracking apart around you. "Very well," you say, hammering in the last nails of your coffin, sealing your fate. "I accept."

He sits straight, casting his voice forth, allowing it to ring in the room. "Princess Y/N, tomorrow you will officially bind yourself to the house of Durin's folk, and announce your engagement to my son. The long-lost daughter of a faraway realm, and now the daughter of ours. We welcome you to the kingdom of Erebor as princess. Serve us well."

You feel your eyes welling again, and take a shaky breath to steady yourself. You can do this. You _can_. You have to. Next to the throne, the prince's throat is working, as if he desperately wants to say something, but can't. His eyes dart around, and fall on you suddenly, catching you looking at him. You look away quickly, cheeks burning.

"I will, my lord," you say, your voice cracking just a little. You hate yourself for it. 

He barks an order in a strange, harsh language, one that rolls off his tongue but is unfamiliar to you. Just like everything in this place. You couldn't have felt more alienated as you did in that one fleeting second. 

You feel a gentle pressure on your arm, and see a slim dwarrowdam next to you, a hand on your arm. She offers you a soft smile, one you don't return. In the stories, the poor girl smiles when she becomes a princess. But now, you don't think you'll ever be able to smile again.

"Come on, lass," murmurs the dwarrowdam. "Follow me, there's a good girl."

You take a deep breath, composing yourself. You look at the king, bowing in what you hoped was a mocking fashion. Without a word, you follow the dwarrowdam out and away from the throne room, and into the maze of corridors beyond. Just before you vanish behind the doors, you look back, and you see the younger prince stalking forward, imploring his father, asking him to revoke what he did, furious and betrayed.

But you know there's no point. It's done. He can't do anything about it. It's done.

And there's no going back.

+++

The dwarrowdam leads you to a room in the east wing, which is clearly the part of the Mountain reserved for royalty, if the gold walls and richly carpeted floors and tapestries attest to anything. Lights glow from soft chandeliers hanging at intervals. It's beautiful.

But a gilded cage is still a cage. No matter how gilded.

She pushes open the door, immediately busying herself with opening curtains and wardrobes and fluffing pillows, leaving you standing in the middle of the room, slightly lost. Your eyes are still filling up, and you want nothing more than for her to leave so you can sob in peace. 

You clear your throat. "I—I can do it myself."

She turns around. She's pretty, you suppose, as far as dwarf women go. Her hair is golden and gathered in a thick bun at the back of her head, and her eyes are a startling blue-green, the color of the sea. She's slim—skinny, almost, compared to the rest of her broad, sturdy race. She's nearly a head shorter than you.

"I afraid I couldn't let you do that, miss," she says. "You're royalty now, and you should realize what that entails, yes?" 

You swallow. "I'm used to doing my own work, and..." You look down, embarrassed. You're wearing jeans and a sweatshirt that used to belong to your dad, one with his university logo printed across the front. Your long hair is pulled into a messy ponytail, and you'd shoved your feet into sneakers before leaving the house. 

Her face softens. "You should lie down, miss. You've had a rough few hours, I'll be sure. Go on, I'll light a fire."

You hold back a sniffle. The urge to cry has become overwhelming; your lower lip starts wobbling, and your breath comes in pants. You force it down, to no avail.

"Miss?" She sounds concerned. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine," you gasp. "I just—need a moment, please." 

You wait.

She doesn't move.

" _Alone_ ," you say, slightly desperately.

Her face clears, and she blushes. "Oh! I'm sorry, miss, I'll leave then. I'll be two doors to your left in the servants' quarters if you need me."

You nod, tears flooding your eyes. "Of course, thank you."

She smiles, and moves towards the door. It closes behind her with a soft click, and then the tears begin, cascading down your cheeks and blurring your vision. The situation slowly catches up with you and the tears fall faster, harder, your gasps turning into muffled cries. You sink onto the bed, holding your middle tightly, as sob after sob racks your body, uncontrollable and unstoppable. You bring a fist to your mouth, your teeth biting in painfully as the tears fall. 

Tomorrow is your engagement to the prince.

You fall back against the plush bedding, tears sliding into your hairline. You're getting engaged. To a man—dwarf, whatever—you don't even know. You arrived at this world not an hour ago and now you're engaged. Betrothed. To be married. To a prince.

Another sob escapes you.

You're going to be a princess. Decked in finery and jewels and a tiara, paraded around this place like a trophy, hanging off the arm of the prince. A human girl. Wedding a dwarf. It'll be a scandal, an uproar, an abomination. But you can't do anything about it. You're nothing now. Just a puppet. Just another pawn on the board, directed by the king as he sees fit.

And you're marrying his son.

Your body heaves with the exertion of the sobs that shake you, gasps escaping your throat. Your life, your whole life, is gone. There's nothing left. It's all gone. You press a hand to your lips in an effort to stop the crying, but you can't. You curl up on yourself and let everything out, all the grief that you've lost your mother and father, the life of solitude you've left behind forever, this new life that will take everything away from you. 

You cry yourself out, and when the tears finally stop and give way to deep, even breaths, you close your eyes and slip slowly into a deep, dreamless sleep, seamless and quick. Your hands fall limp as you dissolve into dreams, and when you do it's with a circle of moisture pressed to your cheek.

+++

_It's a regular Friday night, and the stars are out, shimmering like gems sprinkled across the crushed blue velvet of the sky. The air is clear and untainted by smoke, and smells faintly of wilderness and freedom. It's intoxicating, and it's one of the many reasons you chose to live here, secluded and far away from the city, nestled into the woods._

_You're just reaching for the dish towel hanging from the fridge when a loud thump brings you up short. It came from outside, near the woods you live just on the borders of. You check your watch, frowning. Odd—it's nearly nine o'clock in the night. And nobody lives here but you._

_You sigh, fishing for your keys in your pocket. Locating them, you leave the kitchen, opening the front door, then kicking it shut, locking it for good measure; If it was an animal out there, you may as well lock the house up in case it could get inside and wreak havoc._

_Nobody ever came around here. It's why you weren't nervous, or afraid that it might be a murderer with a chainsaw or something. As far as you know, you're the only human for twenty miles on either side. You flick on your flashlight, heading outside into the woods near the house. The beam shines onto the ground, then flicks up, illuminating the path into the woods._

_Nothing._

_"Hello?" you call. "Is anyone there?"_

_No answer._

_Of course, it's common knowledge that in every horror movie ever, the idiot who calls, "hello, who's there?" dies first. And there's an uneasy gut feeling inside you, one that tells you to get back inside the house as fast as you can._

_But as far as you're concerned, uneasy gut feelings can go shove it. And so can horror movies. You're way more grounded than that. You're not afraid of nothing. Because there's nothing there._

_You switch the flashlight off, sighing and heading back towards the house, fingers reaching for the keys in your pocket. Nearby, a cricket chirps loudly._

_All of a sudden your foot hits something hard. Something that hadn't been there seconds ago._

_You gasp, losing balance and tripping, sprawling onto the ground. Your flashlight goes flying, and your keys are flung from your hands, jingling away into the dark._

_Instead of hitting solid ground, you fall through it, your body slipping through a rent in the world, a crack in the universe, and then you're falling, never hitting the ground but spinning away forever through the dark, into another time, another place, another world, another life._

_And somehow, you know that there is no going back home._


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"It's not a lack of love but a lack of friendship that makes unhappy marriages."_
> 
> _–Friedrich Nietzsche_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's chapter two! Next one will take a while, sadly. I'm really busy until Wednesday. After that, I'll be fine. Hope you like this one!! 
> 
> And if my HC is a little messed up, Thorin is youngest in this, the dragon never attacked and Thror is dead.

You peel your eyes open groggily, mind blissfully blank. You stretch languorously, sighing against the plush, warm bedsheets. Your eyebrows draw together in a frown. Your bedsheets don't smell like this. Usually what fills your nose is a mixture of your detergent, Nike deodorant and sunlight. Now you smell crisp lemon, and a starchy sort of scent. You sit up, dragging a hand through your bedraggled hair. 

You're in a warm, huge bed, one sitting in a lavish room, like a suite. The walls are stone and covered in rich tapestries, and the floor is plush carpet and rugs. A bare fireplace stands on one side of the room. A slanting skylight is set into the western wall, and daylight spears into the room. The four-poster drapes on the bed are hung up, glowing a rich, dark red. 

The memory of the precious crashes into you, so brutally that you slump back against the bedsheets, despair clawing its way up your throat. You press your lips together, trying to stop the tears. Enough. Enough crying. You're a princess now, anyway. 

You laugh derisively to yourself, and wipe furiously at the tears on your cheeks. You reach back, pulling your long tresses into a bun at the nape of your neck, tying it off with a rubber band. You're just debating whether the door on the left or the door on the right is the bathroom when there's a brisk knock on the door—the one on the left. You clear your throat, then call out.

"Come in."

The maid from yesterday pushes open the door, blinking wide verdigris eyes at you. Her hair is caught up in an elaborate braid, then pinned up at the top of her head, making her look very young. Her cheeks are pink.

"I'm here to get you ready, if that's to your liking, miss," she says tentatively. "The official engagement is in a few hours, followed by a luncheon."

You swallow, getting up from the bed. "All right." Of course you should have expected a luncheon. Every royal dwarf in this whole wretched Mountain will be there, looking at you like you're a huge mistake, which, technically, you are. You hang back, weary, as she busies herself with folding the sheets, which she finishes in about twenty seconds, given you had just flopped onto them last night. Then she turns to you.

"I'll draw a hot bath then, shall I? That'll make you feel a bit better, I'll warrant."

"Thank you—sorry, I don't know your name...?" you say, blinking wide eyes at her. Her cheeks flush adorably again. She's rather cute. Like a bunny rabbit, or a mouse. She certainly squeaks like one. 

"Lyvya, miss," she says. "I'll draw up that bath then."

As she hurries away, you touch her arm gently. When she turns, you crack a tired smile at her, hoping it was as warm as you thought. You've always prided yourself on your kindness. Your ability to empathize, rather than sympathize. 

"And, Lyvya... Call me Y/N," you say. "I'm not a princess just yet."

She smiles back, showing even, white teeth. "I'm afraid I required to, miss," she says. "Though your name is a very unusual one. I've never heard the likes of it before..."

You swallow. "It's a common name, back where I come from."

Her eyes crinkle with sympathy. "Come along, miss," she says softly. "Let's get you into some cleaner clothes, hmm?"

You sigh. "Thank you, Lyvya."

+++

The water is hot and silky, and you relax as best as you can, stretching your legs out as far as they can go. You've dragged a translucent screen between the tub and the rest of the bathroom, offering yourself a modicum of privacy. Your hair is loose, and it floats around you, darkening in the water, soaking and getting heavier by the second. Steam curls around you, cradling you in warmth. It should be relaxing and calming, and invigorating, but to you it's nothing but another illusion built to lure you into their arms.

You snatch the bar of creamy white soap and scrub your whole body with it, releasing the sweet scent of vanilla as you do. Draining the tub, you stand, grabbing a downy white towel from the rack next to the tub and dry yourself, wrapping your hair into another. You almost feel normal again.

Almost.

Lyvya is waiting primly outside the bathroom, holding something that you never thought you'd ever see in your whole life, much less wear.

"Is that a corset?" you ask wearily, clutching the towel to yourself protectively.

"I'm afraid so, miss," she says. "You can't wear your dress without it."

Oh, great. Thankfully, the evils of corsets are known to you (you _have_ seen the _Pirates of the Caribbean_ movies before, thank you very much), but unfortunately, it doesn't seem as if you can weasel your way out of wearing it. 

Well, all right, then.

You stand awkwardly in front of Lyvya as she fits the tight garment around your torso, over your bra, humming softly as she calmly laces and grasps the strings, and then yanks like there's no tomorrow. 

You gasp.

"Is that all right, miss?" she asks. "Just another—pull—" She punctuates every word with a vicious tug, lacing the corset tighter. Finally apparently satisfied, she ties them off, tucking the strings into the laces. You're left gasping, clutching your ribs. You glance down, frowning. It fits tightly over your figure like a second skin, outlining every curve in brutal clarity. It makes your hips narrower, your bosom fuller. 

You hate it.

Next comes the dress. Deep, royal blue, chased with silver sigils and designs and sequins, with elaborate embroidery on the bodice and a full, flowery skirt that twirls till your toes. The back is gathered with a black and silver ribbon, showing off your hips and waist. Lyvya tugs and adjusts the dress, hooking the back up, then tying up the bodice. It brushes over the swell of your chest, and the corset pushes your breasts up, and coupled with the tight dress, it leaves nothing to the imagination.

You bite your lip. "Isn't this a bit..." _Lascivious? Formfitting? Lewd?_ "Revealing?" you venture cautiously, twisting around to look at the back of the dress where Lyvya is tugging good-naturedly at the hem. She offers you a tight smile.

"Compared to the others, it's quite demure, if I might say so, miss," she says. "And make no mistake, these are the royal colors of the House of Durin. Since you'll be tying yourself to them and all, this is what you're required to wear."

She stands. "There. Let's get a good look at you, miss." She inspects the dress thoroughly, then nods, seemingly satisfied with the way it seems painted to your body, outlining every dip and curve. You shift, uncomfortable under her scrutiny. With one last, small adjustment at the left sleeve, she directs you to the laden vanity table, seating you on the low bench.

"The ladies of the court will expect you to look like one of them," she says, pulling the towel from your hair. "They will try to make you as uncomfortable as possible—not to degrade or speak with disrespect," she adds hastily, "it's only that many of them had their eyes on the prince."

You close your eyes as she starts to brush your hair. "Aren't there two princes?"

"Aye," she says. "But the Crown Prince is already betrothed, and the eldest princess is already married, and has two sons as well. Only Prince Thorin was yet to find a bride, seeing as he is the youngest of the three. Now that you'll be promised to him, I'm sure you'll get a little more attention than you bargained for, yes?"

You scowl, your eyes still closed. "Well, they can have him. I don't want to marry him."

"Whyever not?" She sets the brush down, and gathers your hair up, carefully sectioning it and pulling the strands into a weave. "He's strong, and handsome, and he's prince to boot."

"I don't even know him."

"You will get to, in due time. From what I've heard he's kind, and compassionate, and a gentleman. I'm sure he'll treat you with nothing but respect and courtesy."

You feel your lips twitch into a teasing smile. "Can the prince possibly have a secret admirer?"

"Miss Y/N!" She sounds scandalized, and you can hear the blush in her voice. 

You laugh softly. "Lyvya, I was only teasing you. Don't worry so much. It's all right, really." You fall silent while she braids your hair, weaving a golden thread into it as she does. For a few minutes there's silence, and you float in trancelike bliss, only the soft feeling of Lyvya's hands in your hair mooring you to earth. 

Then comes the makeup. You didn't even know they had makeup here, but apparently they do. She powders your cheeks, paints your lips, brushes something soft along your cheekbones, then smudges kohl around your eyes, using her slim fingers to apply the cosmetics. She paints one last coat of gloss on your lips before drawing away.

"All done, miss," she says after a few minutes. "You can open your eyes now."

You do, peering at the mirror. And your eyes widen when you catch sight of your reflection. What has Lyvya _done_ to you?

The young woman gazing back at you looks nothing like the frazzled, hastily put-together girl you see in the mirror every day. This woman is calm, serene, imposing, beautiful— _regal_. The blue dress leaches your skin of all color, leaving you pale and cold. Your lips are dark red, and your cheekbones arch high, shadowing your face. Your long hair is pulled up, in an elaborate braided crown that drops off your left shoulder and inlaid with diamond-like gems. Glitter gleams at your temples, and in the hollows of your throat. Smoldering eyes, long lashes, full lips. 

A princess. That's who you see looking back at you.

"I—I look like my mom," you say in surprise.

You see her brows crinkle in the mirror. "Is it not to your liking? Maybe more glitter—"

"No! No, I... I like it," you say, cautiously touching your hair. "It's very pretty. Thank you, Lyvya."

She curtsies. "My pleasure, miss. I'm here to serve."

You touch your hair with your fingers again, feeling the smooth, silky strands pulled neatly and tightly by Lyvya's skilled hands. Even the makeup has been applied with a generous but not too excessive a hand. They've certainly trained this girl well. 

She helps you into a pair of heels—glittering, encrusted with blue gems, and about three inches high—and instructs you to walk to the full-length mirror hanging on the wall about a yard away. 

You do, and halfway there, you trip, the heel of the shoe catching on the hem of the dress. You gasp, nearly falling, but Lyvya is already there, her small but surprisingly strong hands holding you up. She smiles at you as you stutter out a thanks, and helps you walk the rest of the way. Then she lets go of your hands, and you wobble around the room for a bit before you get the hang of it. 

You sigh. "This is a disaster. I'm a disaster."

"You're no such thing. Come on, now, miss, you look ravishing!"

You frown, and squirm in the dress. "I hate dresses."

"Well, I'm afraid that won't get you anywhere, miss," she says. "Women here don't wear leggings or trousers, only dresses. And you're the princess as well!"

You groan. "Why do I get the feeling I'll go mad after being princess for one day? I hate dresses, I like fencing, I hate heels, I like boots, I wanted to cut my hair short before I fell into this place, I like physical workouts, I play sports..." You nearly scrub your face with your hands, only to realize there's makeup caked all over it.

"Ah, miss, don't be too blue," Lyvya says breezily. "I'm sure you'll find some time between all your duties to be yourself."

You shrug. "Maybe. But—" 

You break off when you see a sudden movement in the reflection of the mirror you're looking into. Whipping around, you see the prince leaning against the open doorway, hands casual in the pockets of his midnight blue tunic, clearly just having arrived. You set your jaw. 

Lyvya, on the other hand, gasps and sinks immediately into a deep curtsy, her golden head bowed. 

"Your Majesty," she says breathlessly, rising. It's clear she's infatuated with the man—and you suppose you can see why; he's absurdly handsome, with an arching brow, a sharp, planed nose and a sweeping jaw that's not at all hidden by his thick, short black beard. His eyes are a piercing blue, the color of the afternoon sky just tipping into evening. Broad, tall, and that long dark hair that falls down his back, with two slender braids slipping down his shoulders and held with metal clasps. A spare upper lip and a full lower lip. 

Oh, he's definitely attractive. And you hate him for it.

You thrust your chin up and say nothing. He raises a dark brow, and doesn't even blink as he says, "Leave," to Lyvya.

She curtsies again and hurries away, the door shutting behind her. You say nothing, wearily watching him. It only adds insult to injury that he's so good-looking. He's infuriating, and he hasn't even spoken to you yet.

"I was speaking with her," you say coldly. 

He raises his other brow. "I noticed." 

Dammit. Even his voice is captivating. You really hate this guy. 

"Then why did you send her away?"

"I am to escort you to the ceremony." His lips twist. "Or didn't you know?"

You sneer. "We aren't even really engaged yet."

"What does it matter?" he hisses back. "It's all a show. All a petty trap designed for the foolish gentry and nobility. We were tied to each other the moment my father said so yesterday."

You swallow with great difficulty. "Don't we get a say?"

He lets out a sharp, acerbic laugh, looking away from you. "If we did, we would not be here."

You look down, at your heels. "I'm not ready to marry," you say softly. "I've never had a boyfriend or anything, and now they want me to marry you—sorry, what's your name again?" 

He bares his teeth, hearing the mockery in your words. "Oh, I wouldn't worry," he snarls. "You'll find out soon enough."

You say nothing at the jab. "Fine. I don't care, anyway."

There's a tense silence for a few seconds. With every passing one you hate the prince more. You know it isn't his fault, and he's as helpless as you are, but you can't help but feel a tad resentful. He's had his whole life to practice for this. You were shoved into it with no experience. Doesn't he care? Doesn't he feel anything at all? 

"You look very different from how you did yesterday," he says after a while. 

Oh, really? You hadn't realized. It must have something to do with the fact that you're wearing a jeweled dress that weighs about a hundred and eighty pounds and you have enough makeup on your face to paint the whole Mountain in and around and still have some leftover.

He chuckles, and belatedly you realize that you had spoken out loud. Despite being an irritating idiot, he has a nice laugh, mellow and deep. You find some of your anger ebbing away slightly, almost against your will. You fold your arms.

"What?" you ask defensively.

He shakes his head, still smiling a little. "Nothing."

He clears his throat, glancing at the clock on your mantel. "The ceremony is in a few minutes. We should leave—I take it you're ready?" He gives you a perfunctory once-over, his blazing blue eyes traveling slowly over you. They don't linger anywhere, but when his gaze comes to rest on your face, you're sure you're blushing. 

"I am," you snap. 

"Good." He holds out an arm, raising a brow. Clearly expecting you to take it. You stalk forward as best as you can in your heels, walking right past him and into the hallway. You turn, hands on your hips.

"Not until we have to," you say tightly. 

He sighs. "If you want to make this work—"

"What if I don't?"

A muscle in his jaw jumps. He takes a menacing step forward, right into your personal space. His eyes pin you in place, holding your gaze into his. 

"Just so you know," he growls, "I do not wish to marry you, either. If it were up to me we would have sent you to Dale, where you could tarry with your own kin. You know nothing of the ways of our people. Do not speak of it as if you do."

Your sneer could rival his own. "If it were up to _me_ ," you hiss, "I would not be here at all."

His lips twist. You stalk around him, slamming the door to your room closed before folding your arms again, glaring at him. He turns, watching you from under a hooded, glittering, dangerous gaze. You shouldn't antagonize him. You're to marry him, after all. But everything about him screams authority, and if it's anything you hate, it's someone who thinks they have power over you. 

"Let's just go," you say tiredly. "Get this over with."

He swallows hard, and without waiting for you, turns on his heel and strides away, leaving you to scramble after him as quickly as you can manage while not tripping over the heels that adorn your feet. You follow him through dizzying corridors, so many you lose count, all carved from rich green marble and gray stone.

Suddenly he stops, so abruptly you run into him from behind. Your body collides with his broad, solid back, and he spins as you stumble back. His hands encircle your biceps, pulling you back up so firmly that your feet barely grace the floor. He lets you go as soon as you stand straight.

"Thank you," you gasp. You straighten your dress, patting your hair, suddenly self-conscious. You bite your lip, then stop when you realize it must smear your lipstick. 

"Think nothing of it," he says distractedly. He's peering through the door you've stopped in front of, clearly nervous. His fingers are tapping an idle, random rhythm on his leg, and he's whistling softly. 

"Are we waiting for someone?" you ask, trying to peek over his shoulder. You're thwarted—he's too tall, and even in your heels you can't see a thing. 

"Yes," he says. "My—"

"Thorin," calls a voice, and both of you turn in unison to see King Thrain striding towards you, with the princess and the Crown Prince in tow. The latter is tall, even taller than his brother, with wayward blond hair pulled into numerous braids at the sides, and dark, intelligent eyes. The princess is arm in arm with another dwarf, one with long black hair and eyes of steel blue. 

Thorin—so _that's_ his name—strides towards them, immediately falling into conversation with his father in their rough, ungentle tongue. He has the same hair as his sister, and the same build as his brother. 

They're... a very attractive family.

You hang back, feeling out of place amongst the dwarves. To her credit, the princess instantly disengages herself from her husband and draws up to you. She's in another resplendent dress—this one is a bright, dazzling red, encrusted with rubies on the bodice and with a lily of the same color perched in her thick black locks. She doesn't really have a _beard_ , per se, more of... gentle sideburns that grace her jaw. She has her brother's hawk's nose, and his arching brow as well. 

"You look beautiful," she says, smiling at you. You swallow, suddenly embarrassed. 

"Thank you. So do you," you say. You cringe internally. God, that sounded pathetic. Why are you such a shy person? Sometimes you hate yourself.

She beams. "Thank you! You're the first one who actually complimented me," she goes on, her voice dropping as if she's sharing a secret. "Thorin told me I look boring, and Frerin said I looked like a tomato." She frowns down at her gorgeous dress. You blink. 

"No," you say honestly. "No, you look... very decidedly unlike a tomato. It's a lovely dress."

Her smile widens. "That's sweet of you. You're wearing the House colors," she observes.

You tug at your sleeve. "Yes..."

"They suit you," she says unexpectedly. 

You blink. Before you can thank her, the king swoops in, putting a hand on his daughter's shoulder. She rolls her eyes and moves away, and you swallow, bracing yourself.

"Remember," warns the king, "you will not speak unless spoken to, and you will not put a toe out of line. You are not allowed to leave until all the guests are gone. Understood?"

You nod, trying not to throw up. 

"Thorin," he calls, sweeping away in a swirl of fur. The prince draws up to you, scowling at you like all this is your fault. His eyes shutter as he holds out an arm, not even looking at you. 

This time, you take it.

+++

The ballroom is enormous. The moment you step out onto the landing of the staircase that descends into the hall, you can see all of it spread out beneath your feet, the high ceiling wheeling and shimmering above. A massive silver chandelier hangs from the middle of it, each heavy taper holding a white candle glowing softly. The room is so big you can hardly see the other end of it.

And then, of course, there's the people.

A sea of pale, cold, expressionless faces and finery and jewels, glittering along with the lights. Cold, no warmth in their faces at all. A blur of silk and fur and lace. Everyone is beautiful, but nobody is warm. 

_Nobility. Royalty. Gentry._

_Enemy._

The word slips into your mind, rooting there firmly. These people will want you to go home, they don't like it, that you're here. Lyvya said it—they had their eyes on Thorin. And you... You just arrived here, a day ago. None of these people know who you are, and you've taken the prince, without even trying, without vying for it. For him. 

You take a shuddering breath as you descend the stairs, and nearly trip in your heels, your heart skipping a beat. Thorin's hand tightens on your arm, steadying you for the second time in about ten minutes. You clutch his arm for dear life, holding on to the solidity of him. You're sure your nails are digging into his arm, but he says nothing. 

Instead, his fingers brush down your arm soothingly, a soft caress. You blink confusedly, jumping slightly at the sudden skin-to-skin contact. You feel the blush that creeps up your cheeks, but you relax under his touch. You can do this. You have to. 

You've reached the bottom of the stairs. Everyone is watching, their pale, expressionless faces gazing at you, clearly judging everything about you—your face, your hair, your expression and your bearing. You thrust your chin up, straightening your shoulders. There's no way you're giving these people the satisfaction of seeing you as anything weak. 

The royal family walks over to a small podium near the west end of the room, where a number of chairs are set up. Another family is sitting there, but they look so different from the Durins and the other dwarves in the room that you're a little overwhelmed by it. 

All of them are pale, their skin almost porcelain white. And in stark contrast, their hair is fiery red, thick, voluminous and curly, gleaming like fire under the cold light. The dichotomy of it is startling, to say the least. You wonder what they're doing there. 

"You're to sit there," Thorin whispers into your ear, so quietly you hardly hear it. You strain your ears as he speaks again, the same low, near-inaudible cadence. His warm breath on your ear makes you shiver, but you stand your ground. "In that empty chair—when I tell you to go, go." 

You give an imperceptible nod, swallowing. You're an utter mess inside, but these people can't see you slip up. Not now. Thorin's hand tightens on your arm again, and you feel the heat of his skin through his clothes as he leans in, his lips brushing the shell of your ear again, stirring your hair.

"Are you all right?" he whispers. "You look like you're going to be sick."

You say nothing, giving another stiff nod, trying to tone down the queasiness. "It'll be fine," he murmurs. "Don't think about it too much—just relax."

 _You try to relax when there's a hundred dignitaries staring at you like you're a prized delicacy and you're expected to accept the proposal of someone you don't even know in front of them all!_ you want to scream back, but you only nod again, trying not to bite your lip. 

"Go," he mutters, and you disengage your arm from his before walking with your head held high towards the only empty chair, sitting with a flourish in what you hope is a dainty, ladylike way. You cross your legs under the dress, lacing your fingers together. You keep your face fiercely blank. 

There's a young woman next to you, with the same fair skin and vivid hair as the rest of her family, done up in elaborate curls, and the same build—petite, for dwarves, and a beard even scarcer than Dís'. You can barely make out that she even has a beard. There's a faint smattering of freckles on her cheekbones and nose. She glances at you curiously, and you catch a flash of coal-black eyes before she looks in front again. She's dressed in black and silver, likely the colors of her House, judging by the way the rest of them are all in the same colors.

King Thrain begins by giving a long, elaborate speech in welcome, greeting all the guests, and a particular one to the Firebeard clan—so that's their name. It's well-given, you think. Or well-chosen. Did they choose it, or did it come by as an epithet? You make a mental note to ask Lyvya the next time you see her. 

"—and to strengthen our ties with them," Thrain says, bringing you back to the present. The rest of the family is standing behind him, in a neat semicircle. You chance a glance at Dís' husband. He's ruggedly handsome, with shoulder-length black hair braided with clasps, and cerulean eyes that glitter under the white light. It's only then that you notice the two little boys standing between them, and vaguely you remember Lyvya saying that Dís had children. 

You look closer, and the resemblance in the little family is evident. The smaller one has his mother's hair and dark eyes, and his father's jaw. The elder has his father's eyes, and oddly enough, his hair is dark blond, almost golden. You frown, then locate the source of the gene. The Crown Prince, Dís' elder brother. The little golden-haired one catches your eye and gives you a toothy smile. There's a gap between his two front teeth. You blush and smile back, wiggling your fingers in your lap. He smothers his giggles in his mother's skirt. 

Almost against your will your mood lifts. You turn back to Thrain, who finally concludes his speech with, "And may we see many more ties to come." He turns his head a fraction, and the Crown Prince steps up, looking ever so slightly bored. Thrain says nothing, standing straighter, setting his jaw. "Princess Yraena of the Firebeard clan," he says solemnly. Then he holds out an arm, raising his voice. 

The girl next to you stands and glides over to where the prince is standing, her vivid hair stark amongst all the dark blue of the Durins. The prince swallows visibly when she draws up to him, something flashing in his eyes for only a brief second before it winks out, replaced once again by that faint boredom. You recognize that expression on his face—it's the same one you saw in the mirror today morning, and the same one you'd seen on Thorin's face.

He doesn't know this girl, and by the looks of it, she doesn't know him, either. 

"Princess Yraena," says the prince, voice smooth and charming. Everything about him is charming; the artful tousle of his hair, the easy grace with which he stands, the economical movement and the tone of his voice. "I vow to keep you safe, in sickness and in health, and to bring honor to our house. I vow to be not only a good King, but a good husband. I pledge myself to you, Princess Yraena. Do you accept?" He holds out a hand.

She doesn't miss a beat. She tilts her head up, looking him right in the face. She's quietly aloof, and prim and lovely. A princess in every regard. "I pledge myself to you in turn, Prince Frerin," she says, her voice soft and musical. She places her slender hand in his, their fingers lacing. "I accept." 

The nobles all burst into applause. You follow suit, trying not to sneer at what's happening in front of you. This isn't marriage, it's politics. The whole lot of these people only care about the outcome of this marriage, not their happiness. For god's sake, they don't even know each other! 

Yraena and Frerin move towards the podium, standing by Thrain. She's part of their family now. With all that entails, of course. You sigh. 

"And that is not all," Thrain says, silencing the tittering crowd. _Oh, great. Here it comes..._ "The princess of a realm faraway and distant, a daughter of their halls has graced us with her presence and made herself known. Today we celebrate not only one tie to the House of Durin, but two." You swear he glowers at you before his face softens into a probably false expression of serenity. "Princess Y/N," he calls.

You bite the inside of your lip, standing. Mutters have sprung up behind you, a wave of them. You silently curse the king in your head as you walk to the podium, trying not to let it show that you're a nervous wreck. Once you've reached the podium Thorin steps up beside you.

You wince slightly as the storm of muttering gets louder. You glance slightly to the side, seeing half the girls gathered there glaring daggers at you. Fabulous. Just what you needed. Jealous noblewomen. When would this stop looking like a Charlotte Bronte novel?

"Princess Y/N," says Thorin's voice, and you hastily turn your head. He seems calm outwardly, but his eyes are burning. He repeats the same vow as the one Frerin said, only he doesn't mention anything about kingship, probably because he's the second born. You swallow when he holds his hand out. "I pledge myself to you, Princess Y/N," he says. His eyes skip to yours, impossibly blue. "Do you accept?"

You wish you could hesitate. You wish you could say no, say you want to go home. But instead you blink back your tears and say in a voice that's somehow strong and firm, "I pledge myself to you, Prince Thorin." Your steady hand reaches out, settling onto his. His skin is warm, his hand soft but callused. His fingers tangle with yours as you say, "I accept."

You barely hear it as the uncertain applause rings out, and you let yourself blindly be led to the podium, sandwiched between Yraena and your new fiancé. You stare straight ahead, but you can't see anything. All you see is a blur. 

It's done. You're engaged to him. You're a princess now. 

Thrain says some more nonsense, thanking everyone who came. You blink and look up, seeing a young woman standing in the crowd, with thick silver hair that hangs till her hips and ice green eyes that are looking right at you, narrowed suspiciously. Her deep purple lips curl into a sneer before she looks away from you. You swallow past the sudden lump in your throat. 

You look up belatedly when everyone starts to stand, moving around and clearing space in the middle of the room. The princess drifts off towards Frerin, all tentative smiling and blushing as the couple goes off to talk to the King. You feel Thorin's hand on your arm. "You should sit down," he mutters, and he steers you towards a table. You clench your teeth but comply, allowing him to lead you away. 

Halfway there, the girl you'd seen glaring at you earlier slips from the crowd, materializing in front of you. She smiles widely, showing off perfect teeth. Her dress is tight, even tighter than yours, showing off her full, feminine curves. It shimmers, dark green and silver like her hair. 

"Prince Thorin," she says sweetly, moving forward and practically shoving you out of the way. She crowds right up to him, invading his personal space completely. Her long, talon-like fingers encircle his arm, clutching onto him. "How lovely to see you!" she goes on, flashing another gorgeous smile. 

You think you see a flash of nervousness in his eyes, but it melts away faster than it came and he dips his head politely. "Lady Saelle," he says courteously. 

"And your... new princess," she says, turning to you and looking at you like you're dirt on the bottom of her glittering high heels. "Lovely to meet you," she says, untangling herself from a relieved Thorin and holding out a hand. You swallow, shaking it. It's ice cold. "Enchanted," you hear yourself say distantly.

Suddenly she pulls you close, putting her lips to your ear. She smells dizzyingly of roses and perfume. "Get in my way," she hisses in your ear, teeth gritted, "and I'll make your life hell, little princess. You may think you have the prince with your made-up stories, but I _will_ find out who you are. Make no mistake about it." She pulls away, her expression bland and flat. She rips her hand away from yours. "Anyway, wonderful to meet you!" she says, and gives Thorin another sickly sweet smile before sashaying away, silver hair swaying in tandem with her curved hips. 

You blink, your heart hammering. It had probably just looked like she'd kissed your cheek, like how any aristocratic woman would. Thorin didn't seem to realize. "Saelle—she's from the Ironfists clan."

"Oh," you say, dazed. "You know her well?"

The question seems to perplex him. "Not that well," is all he says. He deposits you at the table, then mutters something about talking to Frerin before making himself scarce. 

He's hardly been gone a minute when Princess Yraena takes his place, folding her hands on the table demurely. "Good evening," she says politely. 

"Good evening," you reply, already tired of court formality. 

"It gets easier," she murmurs. "Don't worry."

You crack a smile. "Am I that obvious?"

Her smile back is radiant. "Not that obvious. I feel the same. I never liked these balls and parties and all back at home. All I wanted since I was little was to open a bakery."

You start. "A bakery?"

"Yes," she says. "But I suppose it's just a dream now."

For some reason, her words strike something deep inside you, make a wave of sadness emanate through you. "I'm sorry," you say. 

"Why?" she asks, surprised. "You did nothing."

You shrug. "It's a way of sympathizing," you explain. "Of saying I'm sorry you lost that dream."

She blinks at you, something in her eyes giving way. "That's... that's very kind of you to say," she says at last. "Thank you."

You're just about to open your mouth again when Frerin swoops in out of thin air, smiling dazzlingly at you. Yraena's face immediately smoothens out. 

"Hello, ladies," he says. "Sorry to break up this little bonding session, but I'm afraid a dance is inevitable."

Oh, God. A dance? 

"Princess Y/N," he says cheerfully. "May I have this dance?"

You blink, looking sidelong at Yraena, whose expression says, _That's how it's supposed to be._ You stand, placing your hand in Frerin's. "Of course, Prince Frerin," you say, wondering exactly how big of a fool you'll make of yourself. 

Keeping your face warm but blank at the same time, you allow yourself to be led out onto the floor.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Without respect, love is lost. Without caring, love is boring. Without honesty, love is unhappy. Without trust, love is unstable."_
> 
> _–Unknown_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, this took forever. Sorry for the wait, but I was really busy. Hopefully updates will smoothen from now on. Anyway, sorry for what I think is a short and crappy chapter.  
> Do drop reviews, they make our day!

The music swirls around you like water, pulsating in the air. You focus on it, letting it fill you and guide you, your hands and your feet as they move in sync with the prince whose hands are looped through yours and whose feet glide along next to you. He's half a head taller than you, his long blond hair tickling his collarbone, which is level with your eyes. A faint sheen of sweat gleams in the hollows of his throat.

He seems very at ease, in his element—he's humming along rather tunelessly with the music, and he flashes you occasional smiles that are both confusing and dazzling at the same time. He's like Prince Charming, Romeo and Indiana Jones all mashed into one, with that easy grace, faint arrogance and his windswept handsomeness. 

You're suddenly glad you'd paid attention to your mom all those years ago for when she'd given you tips for dancing at the senior ball in high school. It feels like ages ago, though it's only been years. You hadn't danced, but you remembered. 

The song ends and the prince bends over your hand politely, giving you a roguish smile. "Thank you, my lady."

You blush as his lips brush your knuckles. "The pleasure was all mine, your Majesty."

He straightens, winking. "Technically, you're 'Your Majesty' too, now."

"I suppose I am. Though it won't be really official until..."

"Until the wedding," he finishes, his grin turning lopsided when he sees the expression on your face. Something in his eyes cracks and breaks. 

"How despicable we must seem to you," he says softly.

Before you can react he drops you a gentlemanly nod and turns, walking away from you and leaving you alone on the dance floor, your hand still outstretched.

+++

Thorin's hands are warmer than his brother's.

That's the first thought that goes through your head, though you can't say why. He smells different, too—more like leather and metal and something else, something deep and musky and rich. It's very... male. You shake your head a little to dislodge the faint effect it has on you. 

He's also stiffer than Frerin had been. Though you can't blame him for that. You know for sure you must be stiff as a board. You remember how you used to dance with your father in the living room as a little kid, standing on his feet as he spun you around the living room while your mother laughed and played the piano. The memory makes a lump of emotion rise in your throat, part nostalgia and part sadness. You wonder what they'd make of all this, your engagement to the prince and all this drama. You miss them so much. 

You blink and look away, trying to concentrate instead on your current predicament. Thorin is determinedly not looking at you, his eyes fixated on the opposite wall. Beside you, out of the corner of your eye you can see Yraena and Frerin, but they're not as stiff as you two are. Clearly, they knew this was coming. You, on the other hand, didn't. 

Your mind drifts back to what Yraena had told you earlier. She'd wanted to open a bakery... something out of the question for nobility like her. Odd, wasn't it, that the poor want to live like the rich and the rich want to live like the poor? You know you'd rather have your old middle-class life back, you'd trade it for these silks and laces in a heartbeat. Nobody wants to be weighted down by position. 

The song ends and you immediately head for a table, breaking Thorin's grip. He follows you, muttering something about obstinate women. You plop yourself down and hold your nose in the air, not looking at Thorin, who's next to you. 

A few seconds later the other royal couple joins you, a silence hanging between them that's too tense to be polite. Even Frerin seems a bit tense. Yraena's soft mouth is set in a hard line. You wonder if they've fought. 

Thorin's eyes are roving back and forth between them too, narrowed suspiciously. He sits back, frowning and crossing his arms across his broad chest. You press your lips together and look up at the princess from under your lashes. She swallows visibly. 

"All right, I'll bite," sighs Thorin finally. "What happened?"

"Nothing," they say in unison. 

"I see," says Thorin. 

You suppress a smile. Thorin locks eyes with his brother and the two of them appear to be conversing silently. You watch, fascinated; it's so odd, how they can seem to have a full-blown conversation like that, without saying a word. It makes a familiar little burst of jealousy erupt in your chest—you've always wanted a sibling, someone who knows you better than you know yourself. 

Finally Frerin bares his teeth and stands abruptly, shoving his chair back with a savage push and stalking away from the table. He disappears into the crowd. 

You raise a brow at your intended. He looks a little taken aback. "I didn't mean for him to run off," he says. "It was only a little nudge."

"What did you ask him?"

His eyes shutter. "That," he says, "is none of your business."

You gape, outraged. "Well, I'm sorry, your magnanimous grace, if I impeded upon your oh-so-confidential conversation. I only wanted to help," you snap. "All I did was ask—you aren't making this any easier, you know."

"If I recall correctly, it was you who said this morning that you didn't want to make this work." He raises a supercilious eyebrow and you want to slap the smirk off his ridiculously handsome face. 

"Even if I didn't, we're still engaged. I can't do anything about that." 

"No?" He fixes you with a blazing look. "Then figure something out, if you're so clever."

Yraena is sitting right there, but you don't care. You grit your teeth. "My word is nothing when compared to your father's. You know that."

"Maybe you should have thought of that before—"

"Before what? Falling here against my will and then being subjected to this torture? You think I _wanted_ to land here and get engaged to you? You think I _asked_ for this?"

He blinks. "Asked for what?"

"Asked to be decked up in these flimsy dresses and being painted and dolled up and paraded around this place like a trophy. Asked to hang off your arm and be your lady, your meek little companion who obeys your every command. Let me tell you something right now, _prince_ Thorin," you hiss, putting all your hate into that one syllable. "I am not your plaything. I am my own woman. Not yours. And if your father thinks for one second that I am anything but, then he can shove it."

You don't have time to savor the surprised look on his face, because you've already kicked your chair back and strode after Frerin into the crowd.

+++

"And that's the last one gone," says Frerin as the massive double doors of the ballroom close with a clang. You slump into your chair, all your energy gone—it's nearly six in the evening, and the last guest has finally left. The royal family (including you and Yraena now) are the only ones left in the hall.

There's a thick tension between all of you, all four of you. Thorin hasn't said a word to you since you'd yelled at him, and Frerin and Yraena are cold-shouldering each other too. If Thrain notices, he says nothing. 

Thorin and Frerin look at each other, almost sizing each other up. Finally Frerin says, "I'll escort Y/N and you take Yraena."

You seethe inwardly, but stand dutifully when Frerin approaches. He mouths, _Just go with it, yeah?_ as he does, and you manage a shallow nod. He loops his arm casually through yours as Thorin does the same with Yraena, and the four of you leave the hall together. 

There's a stiff silence, broken only by the sounds of your footsteps. You slump, uncaring whether they see you. Your shoulders are stiff, your feet ache and all you want to do is tear this dress into shreds. You hate being royalty already.

You and Yraena, it ends up, have rooms that are only a few paces away from each other. The two princes lead you to your doors, standing there rather awkwardly.

"Well... how was your first day of being a princess?" asks Frerin with a grin. 

You force down a scream. "Just marvelous."

"I've had worse days," Yraena says mildly. 

Frerin's expression flattens a bit at that. "Well, you two were pretty good—you didn't kill anyone, which is a start."

"Although you did come quite close," mutters Thorin, smiling a little. "I do recall one of you making a rude hand gesture at one of the lords as they retreated—"

"He insulted me," you say loftily. "Nobody insults me and gets away with it."

He turns his blue eyes to you. "No, I don't suppose they do."

"You'd know," you mutter. "You made a go at it as well—"

"I had every right."

You sneer at him. "Despotism is hardly what we do here, if I'm not mistaken."

"You don't get to pull rank on me," he hisses, getting right into your face. "I don't care if you're engaged to me or even if we were already married, I'll—"

"Both of you, knock it off," says Frerin, pulling Thorin away from you. "Stop it. Just—would it kill you to be nice to each other for a change?"

"I don't know about your darling brother," you snarl, "but I—"

"Y/N." It's Yraena. She shakes her head. 

You sigh, putting a hand on the doorknob. "You—all of you have had experience with this," you say. "I've been pushed into it, I've never been here, never. How do you expect me to cope with it, and be the perfect bride, the perfect princess, the perfect everything, when I know nothing about anything? And they cart me off with—with _you_ ," you say to Thorin, "expecting me to swallow it just like that. That isn't fair."

"I told you," snaps Thorin, "I loathe this arrangement as much as you do."

You sigh, putting your face into your hands as tears well up in your eyes. "I'm just really tired. I think I'll go to bed."

"Al right," says Yraena. "Me too."

Without waiting for the others to chime in their goodbyes, you slip into your room and close the door behind you, locking it for good measure.

+++

The ornate porcelain plate flies from your hand, smashing on the opposite wall in a starburst of white shards. You snatch up another plate, this one made of glass, and throw it, too. It shatters against the wall in a satisfying burst.

You whirl around kicking the table and watching it topple, the leg giving way. The pot of ink on it falls, blue ink seeping into the carpet on the floor. 

You sob, flinging a pillow across the room and snatching up another one, your nails gouging through it. Feathers and blood are stuck under your fingernails, but you couldn't care less. You hate this, you hate all of it. A scream rips from your throat as you throw a vase, hearing it shatter. A piece of the pottery goes wide and slices into your hand, blood pooling into your palm. You barely feel the pain, cradling your bloody fist as tears burn down your face. 

"Miss!" The door opens and Lyvya pokes her head in, gasping when she sees the mess you've made of the room. Her wide eyes travel to you, and she claps her hands over her mouth when she sees your blood. 

"Just leave it!" you shout, not caring. "Just leave it alone!"

Instead of turning and running, she sets her jaw, then closes the door behind her, locking it. Then she heads to the bathroom, and you hear water running as you start blankly at the wall. A few seconds later you feel a burning sting on your palm as Lyvya dabs at the deep cut with a damp cloth smeared with a waxy salve. 

You start crying again as she wipes your blood off, your tears falling onto the dress you haven't bothered taking off. It's torn and bloody in places, but you don't care. You don't think you'll ever be able to care about anything ever again. 

"I'm so scared, Lyvya," you whisper. "What am I going to do?"

"You're going to have to learn to live with it, miss, because nobody ever said life was easy." Her voice is soft but her eyes are hard as she looks at you. "This is just a test, to see if you're brave enough, strong enough, bright enough. You will make it through this, I know it. Don't allow this to take you down."

The tears fall faster. "I can't marry him, Lyvya. I can't."

"You have no choice, miss." The words are final. "You have to."

You sniffle, looking away. After a while, she bandages your hand, careful not to cause you more pain. Then she gently pats your wrist, smiling. "There," she says. "That's better, isn't it?"

"Much." You give her a watery smile. "Thank you, Lyvya. And not only for this." You hold up your hand. "I don't usually cry, I just..." You trail off, biting your lip. 

"I understand, miss. We've all shed a few tears here and there, it changes nothing. And nobody cries because they're weak, you understand; they cry because they've been strong for too long." She gives you a sisterly pat on the cheek and stands. "Come on, now miss, I'll fill the tub with some hot water and you can have a nice long soak to loosen your muscles. Come along now."

You let yourself be led away, holding your hand to your chest and feeling oddly as if a weight has been removed from your shoulders.

+++

After being woken at the crack of dawn and forced into another dress in blue and silver you're frog-marched to the dining hall by Lyvya, who keeps whispering tips into your ear on how to sit and how to look like a proper lady. You grit your teeth but listen, knowing you'll regret it if you don't. 

She leaves you at the door with a last, "And remember, always use only two fingers while drinking tea!" Then she's gone, disappearing into one of the servants' corridors that go parallel to the normal ones so that they can move around unseen, and a lot quicker too. 

You sigh and head into the hall, trying to turn your wrist in so that nobody sees the livid, jagged red line across your palm. Only Yraena and Thorin are there, and the notable absence of the eldest prince intrigues you. But you know better than to ask. Dís is sitting too, with her two boys next to her. They're chatting animatedly to Thorin, who's laughing.

You sit next to Yraena, trying to ignore your fiancé across from you. He ignores you right back and picks up one of his little nephews, setting him onto his shoulders, wincing as he grabs fistfuls of his uncle's hair. Dís laughs, saying something in Khuzdul. You look down, biting your lip. When will you stop feeling like the outsider? 

"Hi!" says a voice, and you turn to see the little blond prince grinning his gap-toothed grin at you. You smile back, tentative. "Hello."

"I saw you at the party yesterday," he goes on, sitting on the table in front of you. You nod, smiling. "I saw you too."

He giggles. "I'm Fíli."

"And I'm Y/N," you say, holding out a hand, which he shakes enthusiastically. "I like your name," he informs you earnestly. "It's pretty, like you."

You smile, oddly touched. "Thank you, Fíli. That's very sweet of you."

"That's sweet, too," he says seriously, pointing at a platter of jam tarts. "You should try one."

You laugh and put one onto your plate. "Don't mind if I do." You turn to Dís, smiling. "They're adorable," you say.

"Oh, don't be fooled by their angelic little faces!" laughs the princess. "They're little devils under their disguises." She ruffles Fíli's hair and he swats her away, grumbling. You hide your smile. 

You smile up at the younger brother, who's currently hanging off Thorin's shoulders, laughing. "Higher!" he says.

Thorin pulls him off, setting him onto the table. "Ah, you'll have to ask Frerin for that," he laughs. "He's taller than I am."

He crawls over to you, blinking wide dark eyes at you. "Are you taller than uncle Thorin?"

You start. "Me? Um, no..."

"Why not?" he pouts. 

"Um—"

"Can you make yourself taller?"

"Well—"

"Then you can carry me!" He grins.

"I don't think—"

"Plllleeaaasseee?" He gives you an angelic smile. 

"I'm not—"

"Kíli," calls Thorin, scooping him up off the table. "Come on, leave her alone. You're scaring her half to death."

"He is not!" you say indignantly. "I love kids."

He looks at you. "You looked terrified."

You blush. "I was fine."

"Of course you were." His eyes narrow. "What happened there?" He glances at your hand, and you look down before shoving your palm into your lap. "It's nothing."

Meanwhile, Fíli has turned his interest to Yraena. 

"I love your hair," he says happily. "It's like fire!"

She smiles. "Yes, that's how my family got their name." 

"Can I touch it?"

She looked surprised, then smiles and relents. "Of course."

They both giggle as he pats her head. "What makes it red?" he asks.

She blinks. "Oh! Well..." She looks sideways at Dís, and the message is clear. _S.O.S_.

 _Humor him,_ she replies.

"I had an ancestor, a long time ago. She was very kind and sweet, and everyone loved her. Well, one day this wizard came to my ancestor and blessed her with the gift of fire. She could bend it, manipulate it and do just about anything with it. It was a very strong power. But, as you know, all power comes with a responsibility, and a cost. My ancestor became too confident and arrogant about her power. She misused it, and made everyone else feel like they weren't worth as much. Nobody loved her anymore."

Fíli's eyes are wide as saucers.

"So the wizard came back to her and told her to stop misusing her magic. But when she said no and told him she was as powerful as he was, he became very angry. He told her that it was by his hand that her power came to her, and now it would be by his hand that he would take it away. So he did just that."

Everyone is listening now. 

"She sobbed and told him she was sorry, but he was unrelenting. When she begged him to at least give her a token of what she used to be besides the memories, he took pity on her and made her hair as red as the fire she once commanded. From then on, all my family has had hair as red as fire, as a reminder not to allow your power to run away with you, and to teach humility and selflessness. Fire has been dormant in our blood, and it's why my hair is red."

The whole room is staring at her. She blushes, and Fíli says, "That's so sad! So she became ordinary again."

"Nobody is ordinary or extraordinary," she says, gently tweaking his nose. "Everyone is equal. That's what the lesson taught her."

"Oh," says Fíli. "I get it now!"

She smiles. "Now have some breakfast," she says. "It won't do if you're hungry, will it?"

He smiles. "No," he says, and hurries off towards his mother. 

Before I can turn to Yraena Dís says, "Y/N?"

You look at her. "Yes, Lady Dís?"

"Since you've never had experience with the way our court works, you'll be attending protocol until the annual Summer Ball that's to take place in about three months. You'll have a schedule, and you can even train if you want to."

"Train?"

She grins. "We're warriors too, you know. We forge our own weapons here."

You've always been fascinated by the art of war, the graceful sweep of a blade, the dramatic arch of a bow, the swiftness with which they moved and you could strike at your enemies. Your mouth practically waters. 

"Where do you keep the weapons?"

"You can only access the weapons and training room once you've had sufficient practice with the other aspects of courtroom etiquette," Dís says. "Maybe in a month or so." She winks. "It'll be a lot of fun, I can tell. You've fought before?"

"She has." To your surprise, it's Thorin. He's looking at you, his gaze unwavering. "And she used a longsword, something thin, like a misericorde, only longer. A hand's hilt, no more, and a thin one as well. She's used to slashing and not stabbing, and preferably with only one hand."

He raises a brow at a stunned you. "How on earth did you know all that?" you splutter.

He smiles. "So I'm right."

"Yes, but—how?"

He leans back. "The way you move. You handle things with care but not too much care, so you're used to holding something light. Your grip is firm, so firm I'm sure you're used to only using one hand when you fight. Your movements are more sweeping than acute, so you're probably used to slashing. All in all, it was quite simple."

You stare at him. He shrugs. "What?"

"Nothing." You look away quickly. He's definitely paid attention.

Dís stands with a sigh. "Lady Y/N, if you would follow me, I'll take you to your first class today. I'll hand over your schedule to you tonight."

You stand and follow Dís from the hall, and before you leave you look back and see Thorin's eyes following you. Just before the door closes between you, you swear you see him give you a half-smile. You want to look back to make sure, but the doors have already closed.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Laws are meaningless, child. There is nothing more important than love. And no law higher."_
> 
> _–Cassandra Clare_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to thank everyone who dropped kudos and comments so far. It can really boost a writer's self esteem. XD Anyway, thank you all! You all made my day. Hope you like this chapter. =)

"So... this protocol," you say to Dís as the two of you head along the corridor. "What exactly does it entail? Classes? Do I have subjects?"

She bobs her head. "They aren't _subjects_ , per se, more of classes. Lessons. How to be royalty, basically, something that you're trained in since birth, if you're born into royalty. Frankly, I think it's a load of codswallop."

You hide your smile as you walk. "I see."

"People telling you how to live, how to act and how to sit and how to dress. It's nonsense. But unfortunately it is what we're built on." She sighs. "You're first class happens to be the worst. Etiquette. They'll dictate your every move. If you don't sit in a particular way, you're an abomination to our House, or some such thing. I'm not so sure."

You swallow. "Oh?"

"Mmm." She stops in front of a door. "Lady Hisa will be taking your classes. Be careful, she is strict and stern and very old-fashioned. Put a toe out of line and expect the worst. Go on in," she says cheerfully. "After this you'll be coming over for lunch, where I'm afraid you'll have to meet with all the ladies of the court. Learn well, for you will have to use your lessons soon. I'll see you in a few hours!" With a cheery wave and a pat on the cheek, she glides off, humming. 

You steel yourself and raise a fist to knock on the door. But before your hand can come into contact with the polished wood surface, it flies open. 

The woman standing on the other side is nothing like you'd thought. From what Dís had said, you were expecting a leathery old woman with gray hair piled on top of her head and a Victorian dress with a hoop skirt or something. Maybe with a hat, with a stuffed bird on it. A stereotypical old-fashioned strict grandmother. 

You were not expecting _this_.

She's maybe middle-aged, tall and sturdy, with glossy, inky black hair in a crisp bob that curves around her strong jaw. Her eyes are a piercing chocolate brown, mahogany and maple syrup all mashed into one warm color. She isn't even wearing a dress—she's dressed in a dark green tunic, neatly creased black trousers and leather boots. Rings gleam on every one of her fingers. 

"Princess Y/N," she says. She has an accent. It's very cultured. You wonder where she's from. "Do come in, we do not have much time."

You cautiously step inside, looking around. A whole wall is glass, a picture window. Outside, you can see the glimmer of a lake and the distant peaks of mountains. Bookshelves line the walls, and there's desk by a roaring hearth to the left. 

"I am Lady Hisa and I will be instructing you on the basic court etiquette a princess must be aware of," she says. "I do not tolerate any silly behavior in my classes, nor do I tolerate a troublemaker. You will leave my room every day more of a princess, until you have been groomed to be the perfect princess. Firstly, dear girl, stop biting your lip. It betrays nervousness."

You start, freeing your lower lip from the clutch of your teeth. You hadn't even realized you were biting it. "Um, sorry."

"Why the hesitation? If you're sorry, say it in one syllable and be done with it. A princess never says five words if one will do. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, Lady Hisa."

"Good. Now sit here," she orders, pointing at a chair. You sit. 

"Spine straight."

You obey.

"Chin up."

You do it. 

Lady Hisa circles you like a vulture circling its prey, her eyes gleaming. "Good posture, but refrain from slouching. Not used to wearing heavy dresses... Hmm, we can take care of that. Clearly you do not bite your nails, which is excellent. Though your lips..." She takes hold of your chin in a strong hand, a thumb running over your bruised lower lip. "It is a bad habit," she announces, letting you go. "And bad habits must be eliminated."

You blink, bewildered, as she sweeps off towards the desk. You turn your head to look at her, and she snaps, "Eyes forward."

You start and turn in front again. 

"Keep your hands folded in your lap, and cross one leg over the other—left over right. Always left over right."

You're liking this less and less with every passing second, but you obey, trying not to snap at Lady Hisa as she comes towards you again. "Chin up, girl. We don't like an unconfident princess now, do we?"

You grit your teeth but obey. "Loosen your fingers, or they'll turn white," she snaps. "You must look becoming! Prim and lovely! Not like _this_!" She gestures to you and you seethe silently. Okay, you hate this lady. A lot. She's like every evil Disney queen ever all mashed into one, only with a sleek bob. 

"What is _this_?" she squawks, snatching your hand. The jagged scar is still there, clear as day. You swallow. "I—I—"

"For Mahal's sake girl, don't stutter. Speak up, go on."

"I hurt myself," you say tightly.

"Hmm. We'll have to cover it up. Disfigurations are a liability." She throws your hand back into your lap. "Gloves will do."

She turns back to you with a glint in her eye.

"Now, when you speak," she says, "speak clearly. Enunciate. Every word must be unmissable! And your voice must be soft. You are a princess, not a barbarian."

"Yes, Lady Hisa."

"Good. Now if you would repeat after me..."

+++

You stomp all the way to luncheon, seething, frustrated and irritated. You're starving, you've been overworked, made to smile and talk politely and eat delicately—these people are so full of it. And you are so done.

Halfway to the lunch hall, you collide with a dark, solid shape, stumbling back with a surprised sound. You straighten and immediately say, "I'm very sorry, I wasn't looking where I was going." The words come out soft and polite, and you grit your teeth inwardly. Those ridiculous lessons seemed to have succeeded in brainwashing you, at least for now.

"Y/N?" says a voice, and you blush when you see Thorin, rubbing his shoulder and looking at you like you've just dropped from the moon. "What did you say?"

"I said watch where you're going," you mutter, tilting your chin up defiantly. 

His lips quirk up into a smile. "I distinctly heard you say 'I'm very sorry—'"

"Oh, shut up, please," you snap, sighing. "Those stupid lessons, they've turned my brain inside out."

"They certainly have. You even said 'shut up, _please._ '" He grins at you. It makes him look even better-looking, if that's possible. His blue eyes glitter with amusement. 

You huff and turn your nose up at him, trying to hide how flustered you are. "Well, don't get too used to it," you say. "It'll wear off by the time lunch is over, I'm sure of it."

"On the topic of lunch," he says, "you're meant to go back to your room and change. Dís said so."

You look self-consciously down at your dress. "What's wrong with this one?"

He shrugs. "No idea. I've learned not to question these things."

You roll your eyes. "Whatever. Fine. I'll see you at lunch?"

He shakes his head. "Only the women for this one." You must look pretty crestfallen, because he actually laughs. "Don't worry, just keep a cool head and try not to slap any of them. Especially Saelle. Dís has come pretty close a couple of times."

You sigh. "I can survive this. I can."

"Keep telling yourself that," he mutters, then with a nod, he turns and walks down the corridor, disappearing from sight. You watch him go, suddenly feeling disappointed that he's not going to be at lunch. You slap yourself inwardly immediately after the thought passes through your head. You do not need him. For anything. Ever. 

You slip into your room, seeing the heavy dress lying on the bed and Lyvya brushing it down. She looks up at you and curtsies, smiling. Invariably, your heart lifts when you see her. She might just be the only person in this whole Mountain you actually like. Her, Dís and Yraena. And maybe Fíli and Kíli. And Frerin. Thorin may not be so bad, either.

God, these people are so hard to hate. 

Lyvya helps you into the dress, which is made of fine, interwoven chains of silver steel, tinted gold at the neck and hem. Heavy blue lace adorns the cuffs and bodice, blooming across the skirt like flowers. Blue and silver again. 

This time, the makeup is heavy. Dramatic angles and shadows and dark lips, bronzer across your cheeks and kohl ringing your eyes. You feel itchy and uncomfortable, but you keep at it. It's only a few hours. Just a few hours.

Lyvya puts your hair up in a high braided twist, not a strand out of place. She secures the knot with glittering pins, then steps back. "There. That should do it," she says, then curtsies again.

"You're to leave now, miss. You'll be back in a few hours, I'm sure."

"All right. Thank you, Lyvya. It looks lovely," you say, patting your hair.

Her smile is soft. "My pleasure, miss." With that, she turns and slips out, leaving you alone in the room.

+++

"Princess Y/N!" says Dís' voice the instant you walk into the room. "Do sit down," she says, indicating the spot next to Yraena, who is dressed in an even more intricate dress than your own, but in black and red and silver, her House colors. Looks like she'll be sporting them till she weds Frerin. The thought makes you sad for some reason.

There are so many people, so many girls, in the room. Wow. _All_ of these girls wanted Thorin? Come on. He's hot, but not _that_ hot. He's also prince, which probably counts for about ninety percent of their affections. Ugh. Poor guy. They probably played for his favor like he was a trophy. You certainly saved his dignity by agreeing to marry him. 

His dignity, yes. But what about your own?

You shake the thought off, turning to smile blandly and politely at the assembled. You spot Saelle immediately, and she gives you a smirk, raising her eyebrows. You look away, trying to seem haughty. You straighten and thrust your chin up, forcing down your nausea. It's only a few hours. Then you'll be free. Only for a while, but still.

Lunch itself is a quiet affair, but it's the after party that you hate. You drift around, mingling, trying to avoid a waterfall of silver hair and eyes as green as envy. _Hmm,_ you think. _That's an apt analogy..._

"Princess Y/N!" says a voice, and you cringe. "Lady Saelle," you say with false enthusiasm. "How lovely to see you here."

She smiles coyly, lashes fluttering. She's really pretty, with those thick silver tresses drawn into curls and eyes like liquid grass. She's poured her ample curves into a full-sleeved, high-necked dress of dark green, which seems odd compared to her last dress. 

"You look lovely," she sneers. "The colors of Durin, if I'm not mistaken." 

You flush. "You're not."

She smirks again. "Where are you from again? I'm afraid it's slipped my mind."

The well-rehearsed lines spring into your head readily. "My mother was from the Iron Hills, and my father was the king of a realm in Arda that was destroyed during the war on Angmar. Darktrees—I'm sure you haven't heard of it. It was a small kingdom."

"I'm afraid I haven't." Her eyes glitter. "You don't look much like a dwarrow."

"My father was human."

Her brows shoot up. "I see. How odd. And you're to wed the prince of Erebor?"

"I don't see why not," says a voice. It's Dís, standing next to you with a regal scowl on her face. "Her mother was dwarrow, and a lady of the court in the Iron Hills. My father chose her. Do you doubt the word of the King, lady Saelle?"

"Of course not, princess Dís," says Saelle. "I was only curious. Seeking answers, is all."

Dís' features are pulled into an expression of distaste. "Then seek your answers elsewhere," she snaps. 

"Not very princess-like," says Saelle with a false pout that makes you want to smack it off her face. "Whatever happened to serenity and calm?"

"And whatever happened to 'mind your own business'?" you snap, putting a light hand on Dís' shoulder. 

Her smile widens. "Ah. I see how it is. Your Majesties." With a mocking bow, she turns around. Whatever misgivings you'd had about how demure her dress is flies out the window. It's totally backless, displaying her perfect supple skin to the world. Her hair is up, leaving the whole thing bare. Does this girl know the meaning of modesty?

Dís turns to you once Saelle is gone. "You didn't have to," she says. "It was fine."

"No, I think I did have to. She was getting on my nerves."

Dís laughs. "You don't know the half of it. She's been chasing Thorin for about six years. She's tireless, and irritatingly obstinate. She won't stop till she has him. Even if you're there, you're just a threat. Be careful, all right?"

You nod, and she smiles before turning to a group of younger women next to her. You spend the rest of the party with Yraena, not speaking, but just standing next to each other, to make the burden a little easier to bear.

+++

You have the rest of the day off, so you spend it walking around the kingdom and marveling over how big it is. You've changed out of your dress and heels and you're in a simple periwinkle silk gown—more of a shift—that feels like cool mist against your burning skin, and simple flats. Your hair is loose.

You trail a hand across the cold stone walls as you walk by, and it's smooth on your fingertips. It's eerily quiet around you, but you don't mind, taking the silence as a gift after so many hours of incessant chatter and talk. 

You turn a corner, and then you hear it.

The clash of blades, of metal against metal. It's faint, but it's there, and it's unmistakable. You'd know that sound anywhere. As if in a trance, you do the only thing possible.

You follow it.

The beautiful sound of the blades leads you to a set of double doors, arching and made of wood and ajar, thrown carelessly open as if the person who opened them simply flung them open without a thought.

You poke your head in, wondering what you'll see. And all your breath is stolen from your lungs in one fleeting second. 

It's the biggest room you've ever seen, and two of the walls are solid glass, like Lady Hisa's room, only these are bigger, clearer. The other two walls are hung all over with weapons—swords, javelins, maces, daggers, maces, throwing stars, axes... You can't even name them all. They hang against rich plum velvet in deadly fans of silver and gold and bronze.

And, oh god... The _sabers_. Long and slim and deadly. With knuckle guards and scabbards and blades in silver and steel. Your fingers itch to hold one, swipe it through the air, hear it whistle as it flies in your hand. 

A sudden movement brings your eyes to the two figures in the middle of the room, sparring with incredible grace and speed. They move so fast their limbs look like blurs. You're transfixed, held in place by the swiftness of their strokes. 

You see a flash of blond hair, and think, _Frerin_. He's grinning fiercely, sweat dripping off his face and his hair plastered to his forehead. His braids are loose, dark blond strands mixing in with his lighter hair. 

His opponent turns into your line of sight, and you see a flash of hot blue eyes. Thorin looks even wilder than his brother, teeth bared and sweat gleaming on his face and throat. You try not to notice how his thin white cotton shirt is sticking to his body, outlining the hard muscles of his chest and the sweep of his throat. Instead you focus on the blade in his hand—long, broad, double-edged. Chased with black designs. It must be heavy, but he holds it with ease.

Frerin feints casually, then slams the flat of his blade onto Thorin's hilt, his eyes narrowing as he twists. Thorin makes a surprised sound as his blade clangs to the floor, and Frerin's own comes to rest at his throat. 

"Well played, brother," he says with a cheery wink, sliding his blade back into its sheath. "Though you were sloppy this time."

He turns, and catches sight of you at the door. He looks surprised, then his face softens into that easy grin of his. "Y/N," he says happily. "Come to watch the show?"

You blush, furious at yourself for getting caught. Thorin is staring at you, his brows raised. You look away and focus on Frerin. "No, actually—I was just walking around, and... I heard you."

"I'm sure we were quite loud," he says unabashedly. Then his eyes narrow. "You fight too." It isn't a question. 

"I do, but not with blades like that," you say, nodding at his broadsword. "I use—"

"Something light, thin maybe?" He's looking at you appraisingly. "Hmm... Saber?"

You duck your head to hide your grin and nod. "You hit the nail on the head."

He winks, then heads over to a rack of sabers, sliding one out and weighing it in his hands. Without warning, he tosses it to you. Out of pure reflex, you catch it.

"Shall we see if you're any good with one?"

"But," you say, gazing at the weapon in fascination, "Dís said I'm not allowed—"

"And she's wearing a dress," Thorin says with a roll of his eyes. "I doubt even you could fight wearing a dress."

Frerin scratches his chin. "Mmm... that's a good point. No pun intended," he adds. "Ah well, maybe next time." He looks at you. "You fence?"

You nod, remembering the training room back home, and the long hours of fighting you used to do every day. "I used to."

You toss the weapon back to him and he slides it back. "Just a few weeks," he says. "And you'll be able to come here to train. You won't use it, but it'll be fun. I haven't fenced in ages." He cracks his knuckles. "And Thorin can't fence to save his life—"

"Hark who's talking," says Thorin, scowling at his brother. "Says the one who can't shoot with a bow to save _his_ life."

"Ah, there are some things even I can't do," says Frerin with one of his dazzling smiles. "Though I try."

You smile. "If I ever do come here," you say, "you'll have to teach me to fight like that."

"Like what we just did?" Thorin asks, running both hands through his hair. It spills through his fingers like licks of black fire. You wonder how it'd feel against your hands. Would it be soft, or silky, or... _Snap out of it,_ orders an inner voice. But even so... How can he manage to look handsome covered in sweat? It's not fair. "That's nothing," he says with a grin. "Just practicing."

"Deal," says Frerin. "All right, we should get out of here before father comes in and has our hides. Good spar, baby brother. And Y/N." He winks at you as Thorin grumbles. "See you around. And keep your guard up, yeah? You're going to need it."

+++

"For the last time, girl, stop biting your lip!"

Lady Hisa glares at you from where she's sitting across from you. You quickly stop, though you resist the urge to stick your tongue out at her. 

"Now," she goes on, "take this." She holds out a teacup and you take it, cautious.

"Legs crossed," she snaps.

You remember one thing and forget another. How will this ever work? You cross your legs, gritting your teeth. You hold the stupid teacup.

"Ugh, that scar," she says, scowling at your hand. "It's positively revolting. By Durin, girl, what on earth happened?"

"I told you," you say through clenched teeth, "it happened quite a while ago, before I came here."

"Mmh. Well, you should have been more careful. Really, what do they reach women nowadays? Now, spine straight, dear girl, we don't have all day!"

You straighten. 

"Only two fingers," she instructs, nodding at your hand. "And daintily, remember, you are a princess, not—"

"Not a barbarian," you say dully.

"Exactly. Now, chin up. If I see you biting those lips one more time, so help me I will—"

"I won't," you snap.

"Now now, don't be so testy," she says, smiling sickly. "And it's rude to interrupt an elder. Goodness me, if you do this in public what will they all think?"

"I—" _I don't care,_ you want to say. Instead, you bow your head. "Yes, Lady Hisa."

Her sickly smile widens. "Good, good. Learning to hold that tongue of yours. If you don't control it, someone might just cut it out for you, hmm?" 

You stare at her.

"Now, from the beginning! I want you to smile, girl, not sulk. And don't slouch. Fingers straight. Eyes clear. Words neat and crisp. I want them all to look upon your impeccable manners and say, 'Yes, that is Hisa's girl. Not a hair out of place!'" She glares at you. "Understood?"

"Yes, Lady Hisa."


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Through love, burning fire is pleasing light."_
> 
> _–Rumi_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you all like this chapter. I get that there are a lot of OCs, and that may be a bit confusing, but do bear with me; OCs were essential in this case of an AU. And if you have any questions—general doubts, things I was unclear on, et cetera, don't hesitate to let me know! I exist to serve.

There's a knock at the door.

You sigh. "Come in," you call, expecting Lyvya to come in with tomorrow's dress or something. Instead, Dís pushes the door open, blinking at you. "Y/N?"

You stand hastily. "Princess Dís! Come in, please." You scoot around to make room for her as she comes inside, looking tired and wan. 

"It's just Dís, please," she says with a smile. "I'll be your sister in-law soon, after all." Then she sighs and holds out a piece of paper to you. "This is your schedule until you're allowed to train with the boys and Yraena, which is when you'll get a new one."

"Okay," you say, taking the paper. You glance at it fleetingly, making up your mind to read it later. Dís loops her hands behind her back and raises an eyebrow at you. "So, how was your first day of classes?"

You think of Lady Hisa and suppress a groan. "Fine."

Her lips twist. "I imagine Lady Hisa gave you some trouble."

" _Some_ trouble?"

She laughs. "She isn't a favorite of anyone in the court, but she's the best teacher of etiquette we could ever hope for. Problem is, she sort of..." She waves her hand in the air in a vague gesture. "You know."

"Leaches the life out of her students?" you try. 

She smiles. "Quite. I was her student for a good long while, as I prepared for my father's coronation after my grandfather's death. I walked out of her class in frustration and never went back."

You raise an eyebrow. "You pulled a Hermione Granger?"

She looks blankly at you. "Who?"

You shake your head, smiling at the inside joke. "Nothing."

"Anyway," says Dís, "don't get too angry, just don't let your temper get the better of you. She's a royal pain in the behind, but she's your only hope of convincing the nobles that you are who you say you are."

"She's just so uptight," you sigh. "I can't breathe the way I like with her in the room."

Dís' eyes crinkle with sympathy. "It's only a few weeks and then you'll be free. Anyhow, her classes aren't the only ones you have. Look at your schedule, and the girl—Lyvya, I think her name is—she'll escort you to all your classes. Within a month, you'll begin training."

"Okay," you say. "That sounds fine."

She smiles and prepares to leave. "Oh, and Y/N?" she calls, just about to close the door. You look up from your schedule. "Yes?"

"Give my brother a chance," she says. "He's a good dwarf, really. Sometimes he lets his temper speak for him, is all. If anyone can handle him, I'm sure it's you. Good luck." With that, she closes the door with a snap, leaving you to stare after her.

+++

Your first class the next day is history. Lyvya herds you to the door, quiet and prim as usual. You glance down at your schedule again, and breathe a sigh of relief when you see that etiquette is not a class you've got today. In fact—your heart soars—you haven't got it for another three days. That's seventy-two whole hours without seeing Lady Hisa's terrible face and hearing her even more terrible words. Your heart lifts.

"You're to go in, miss," says Lyvya, almost unconsciously reaching out and adjusting the collar of your dark red gown. Then she curtsies and makes to leave.

"Wait, Lyvya!" you call. She turns. "Miss?"

"I..." You look down at your schedule. "For the next class... I don't know where it is."

She smiles. "I'll be waiting outside once you finish with this one, miss. I'll escort you."

You sigh, and smile. "What would I do without you, Lyvya?"

She laughs. You've never heard her laugh before—it sounds like silver bells ringing. "I sure you would get along fine, miss." With a cheery wave, she disappears into the servants' corridor and out of sight. 

You raise a fist and knock on the door, hoping against hope that the teacher isn't as bad as Lady Hisa. To your surprise, the person who opens the door isn't a woman, it's a man. Dwarf. Whatever.

"Princess Y/N?" he asks, blinking. He looks middle-aged, too, like Lady Hisa, only his hair is dark blond, almost brown, but not quite. His eyes are a pale, glassy blue, shot through with chips of darker navy and violet. They're the prettiest pair of eyes you've ever seen on a living creature. Light stubble coats his cheeks, and his hair is pulled back in a ponytail.

"Yes," you say, hesitantly. 

"Do come in," he says with a smile. "My name is Instructor Faryn. I will be teaching you history—a necessity, for a future princess, yes? Especially one... not born in this kingdom. Or this continent."

_Or this world,_ you think, but you say nothing. 

He's looking at you shrewdly, almost as if he knows something you don't. Then the look breaks off his face and he smiles tremulously. "Please, sit down."

You sit, and he bustles around for a bit. Then he sits in front of young the large desk. It's covered in books and papers, and it's cluttered all over with stuff. You wonder how he can concentrate with all this mess on the desk.

He leans over the desk, gazing at you intently. "You know where we are, yes?"

Thankfully, you do. "Erebor. The Lonely Mountain, in the east of Middle-earth in Arda."

He nods. "Though geography is not my subject, the two are linked, intimately so. What is history, after all, without place of origin? Anyhow, yes, we are in Arda. You have not been... anywhere but this Mountain?"

You hesitate. "No."

"Not to the realm of the elves or the men?"

"No."

"Yet I heard your father was a man."

"Yes, but... his was a small kingdom, far away from here." You frankly find the cover story ridiculous, but you say nothing of it. "Darktrees."

"I must say I've never heard of it." That shrewd gleam is back in his eye. "Although that's not why we are here. You know the family to which you have tied yourself, the House of—"

"Durin."

"Precisely. Their first ancestor, Durin the Deathless, was a dwarf of the family Longbeard, who settled in the Lonely Mountain and bore the line of Durin. One of his descendants, Thrain the Old—"

"You mean the present king, Thrain?"

"No," he says with a small smile. "This Thrain was alive several hundred years ago. You'll find we have an odd habit of renaming our children after our ancestors. I don't think we've properly thought of a name for the past half a century." He smiles weakly. It's a lame joke, but you find yourself smiling too. 

"Anyhow, Thrain the Old, or at least, during his reign, they hewed a stone from the earth in this Mountain, a stone so beautiful that they claimed it was placed here by Mahal Himself. They called the Arkenstone, and Thrain, mounting it above the throne, called it the King's Jewel. All must swear fealty and pay homage to him for he holds it. And his children did after him. Now the present Thrain holds it, and it will go to his first heir."

You remember the beautiful stone above the throne, gleaming with its million facets and fingers of light that rayed out in every color of the rainbow. So that's the Arkenstone. 

"So... I don't get it," you say, shaking your head. "That stone is what makes him King?"

"Well... in a way," says Faryn. "The seven dwarf clans swore loyalty to the one who holds that stone. Should it be stolen or taken by someone, even if they are not dwarrow they command all the dwarves in Arda."

Your head spins. "Wow. Okay."

He smiles again. "Yes, it's quite valuable. Frankly, I never understood it. It is only a stone, after all. A jewel. Why should a jewel decide who holds power? There are much better things to judge with. However, the word of a historian is never truly looked upon. They find my opinions deteriorate from theirs quite drastically."

You frown. "Well, even I don't get why a jewel should count for so much."

"I'm afraid we are the only ones who think so, then." He sighs and draws a pair of glasses from the mess on the desk, sliding them on. He looks younger with them on, like an eager schoolboy. His eyes blink out at you, slightly magnified. You can see every sliver of darker blue in them. 

"Princess Y/N," he says. You still aren't quite used to the word _princess_ that everyone places in front of your name. In your blood, you're not a princess, and something in you rebels, not wanting to be chained by that word. 

"I wanted to know a little more about you," he goes on, sitting back. 

Alarm bells start ringing in your head. "There's really not much to know about me," you say, trying to keep your voice calm and unruffled. "I'm practically nobody."

His eyes spark. "You are engaged to the prince of Erebor," he says. "You will never be nobody."

His eyes unnerve you; you feel like they can look right through you and see you for who you really are—a sheep in wolves' clothing. You moisten your lips. "What did you want to know?"

He shrugs. "Your father. What was he like?"

It's a relatively normal question, but it hits you like a punch to the gut. Your father? He wants to ask about your father? _Be honest,_ says a voice in your head. After all, the best lies are based on the truth.

"He was... a father," you say. "What else could he be? A king, yes, but he always found time in between to care for me, teach me. He loved me. As I loved him back. He was a good man." You look down, trying to ignore the painful lump in your throat that seems impossible to swallow. 

Faryn's eyes crinkle in sympathy. "And your mother?"

"I never knew her, not really. She—she died when I was very young." You don't think you can bear talking about your mother, not without bursting into tears. "I don't remember much."

"I see." He gazes at you critically. "Thus your arrival here." He sighs. "Now, to return to the lessons..." He stands, sweeping off to a shelf full of old, huge tomes. He slides a smaller one off the shelf and plops it onto the desk, opening it. It's full of spidery, angled runes, spiky and unfamiliar. 

"I... can't read Khuzdul," you admit.

"Yes, you'll have classes for that as well," he says, rifling through the pages. You sneak a discreet glance at your schedule, and see that you do have language classes. You frown at it.

"What language was the tongue of your people?" he asks.

Uh-oh. You cast around for something. "We just spoke Westron."

A slight shift in his gaze. "Ah. I see."

He hands you the book. "Now, if you would look at the second paragraph, the picture next to it is—"

"The Arkenstone," you say. It's obvious—the illustrator has captured it so perfectly that it looks as if the stone has been placed into the paper. "I've seen it." 

"The pride of our race." He sounds slightly sarcastic and you hide a smirk. "If I'm not mistaken there is another book similar to this in Westron. If you'll excuse me, I'll just go get it..." He smiles down at you as you perk up. "You enjoy reading?"

You blush. "Greatly."

"Excellent. Nothing better than a princess who loves to read." With a wink, he leaves to get the book, humming to himself.

You smile at your fingers.

+++

"Well, miss, you survived your second day as a princess," says Lyvya, who's tidying up your room despite your protests that you can do it yourself. You sigh, lying on your stomach on the bed.

"Well, yeah. It was all right."

She smiles. "I'm sure you'll get used to it."

You sigh again. "Maybe. I'm still not used to being engaged."

Lyvya rolls her sea-green eyes. "It isn't all that bad!" she protests. "You could've been betrothed to someone much worse. I'm sure you should be glad it's prince Thorin."

You hide your snicker. "Yes, well. Oh, Lyvya, you won't _believe_ how many women were vying for his hand! It's ridiculous. It's only because he's prince. They wouldn't even care if he was completely horrible, all they wanted was his position."

"Many women were like that, miss. Only a few weren't."

You frown, sitting up on your elbows. "He didn't have a girlfriend, did he?"

She frowns at you. "A what?"

You bite your lip. "Someone he was stepping out with."

Her eyes clear. "Oh, no, miss. He hasn't given his heart to anyone yet. You needn't worry. If he was, I'm sure he would have told you by now. He wasn't even trying to court anyone, so I suppose your arrival was most opportune."

You flop back onto the pillows. "Well, good. I didn't want to be that unintentionally cruel."

"I don't think you could be cruel even intentionally, miss," Lyvys says sweetly. You blush. "I'll be off then, miss. Call for me should you need anything, yes?" With that, she gives a small bow and leaves the room. 

You stare up at the ceiling, your lip caught on your teeth. You can practically hear Lady Hisa's voice in your head screaming at you to stop, but you persist. That horrible woman can go stuff it. You're glad you don't have her class for another two days. 

You roll over onto your side. You don't quite know what to make of the history teacher, but he seems like someone who knows more than others let on. You feel like he can see everything about you that you hadn't said.

You hadn't even seen your fiancé the whole day, either. Or Yraena, or Frerin. You wonder if it'll be like this till you start training. You hope not. You feel your eyes closing, and it's close to midnight when you finally drop off to sleep, your face mashed into your pillow and your body relaxed.

+++

Everyone is at breakfast the next day, even Dís' little boys. They smile and wave at you and you return their greetings, smiling. God, they're so cute. 

Yraena and Dís are talking about the Summer Ball that's to take place in a few months, and you lean into the conversation.

"All the seven clans will be there," says Dís. "Since this is the largest of the kingdoms and all."

"And it'll be after..." Yraena hesitates.

"After... yes," says Dís. _After the wedding._ You wonder not so idly when your own wedding to Thorin will be. Hopefully not soon.

"You'll have to be on your best behavior," says Dís with a wink at you. "And you'll need dancing lessons—both of you."

You suppress a groan. "I don't really dance."

"I could tell." She grins. 

Yraena sighs. "I could never get the hang of dancing," she says regretfully. "I never truly understood why I'd need to know how to dance."

"Well, now you do," says Dís, trying to get Kíli to eat his food. Meanwhile, on the other end of the table, it looks as if Thorin and Frerin are arguing.

"—didn't make it look like an accident," snaps Frerin. "... less obvious than that, you prat?"

"Oh, shut up," says Thorin. "I'm not the one who..." His voice fades in and out of focus. "... asked father, and he said no."

"Just forget it," says Frerin.

"Don't pull that on me," snaps Thorin. "If you'd just—"

"I said no, all right? Now leave it alone."

"But—"

"I said _leave it alone_ , Thorin." 

Thorin lapses into a stubborn silence. Dís shakes her head in their general direction, as if to say, _Men._

Yraena's face is set in tight lines. She's staring down at her hands, which are clasped in her lap. You frown at her.

"Is something wrong?"

She shakes her head, clearly not very good at hiding her emotions. "Everything is fine."

"Okay, if you say so." You don't push her. But something tells you that the reason Thorin and Frerin were fighting may be linked to Yraena. You blink at your plate of rolls, your mind churning.

What on earth is going on?

+++

You're lost.

You know it the instant you turn a corner and do _not_ see the statue of the dwarf killing the boar that you had marked as a landmark. Instead, you see a dead end, with a niche on the wall and a statue of Mahal on it. You've never seen it before in your life.

Swearing softly to yourself, you double back and move into the next corridor.

Nope.

The next corridor.

Double nope.

The next one.

Triple nope.

You stumble into yet another corridor, but no dwarf boar statue to be seen. You curse colorfully under your breath, then go along the corridor anyway, hoping to find someone and ask them for directions. No such luck. 

You're starting to get worried when you hear it—a faint, soft music, haunting and beautiful and foreign. It sounds like sunlight and rain, though how that's possible even you don't know. You stand there, transfixed, for a couple of seconds, then decidedly plunge after the sound. 

The corridors twist and turn, snaking around the Mountain and with every step you take the music gets louder, and more beautiful. It's not an instrument you've ever heard, though somehow it sounds vaguely familiar.

You break into a run, your carelessly tied hair spilling out of its loose bun and flying behind you like a banner. Your feet fly across the marble, the music swelling around you as you get closer. Finally you burst into the right room, grabbing the open doorframe. The music surrounds you, wrapping you in the sound of it, the serenity. You're out of breath.

You grow even more so when you locate the source of the sound. It's a harp, and it's being played with undeniable skill and passion. 

By Thorin.

You stand in the doorway, panting, watching as his skilled, nimble fingers dance across the strings, barely touching them but coaxing such beautiful sounds from the instrument. Your heart swells, lifting with the crest of the music as it goes higher. Somehow it brings back memories of home and hearth, and your friends and family and your old life. Tears fill your eyes, unbidden. 

The piece he's playing ends in a crescendo, and the silence it leaves behind once it's done is deafening. Your heart is beating double-time. You feel dizzy.

His dark head is bowed, a curtain of inky hair falling forward and hiding his face. You bite your lip, nearly breaking the skin. You swallow. Had he seen you?

"How long have you been there?" His voice rings out suddenly, making you jump. You steady your breathing. 

"Just a few minutes. Sorry I... I was lost, and I heard you playing, and I..."

"Followed?" He looks up. His eyes are so blue. You shrug, feeling slow shivers of heat crawling up your body. 

"You play beautifully," you say, stepping into the room. It's more of a chamber, hollow, with pillars ringing it. No wonder you'd heard him—it was bound to echo in this room. "I didn't know you played."

He sighs and stands, cracking his knuckles. "You don't know a lot of things about me." He gives you a sideways look through his lashes and you find yourself blushing. You feel like a teenager again, turning into a sopping wet mess whenever your crush would look at you. 

"It was lovely," you say, indicating the harp. "I've never heard anyone play a harp before."

"Well, now you have." He raises an eyebrow. "You said you were lost?"

You flush. "Maybe." When he raises his other eyebrow you roll your eyes, your cheeks reddening. "It's a big place, okay? I got lost. I'm sure even you get lost in this maze of corridors sometimes."

His grin is a slash of white in the dimness. "Maybe sometimes," he admits. "You want me to help you get back?" He walks up to you and you find yourself blushing again as his presence washes over you. That smell accosts you again—musk and metal and leather. Not to mention he radiates heat like a furnace. His face is artfully half shadowed, planes and dips and angles rendered clearly. He's standing so close you can see every black brushstroke of his eyelashes as they feather down over his cheeks when he blinks, and a darker ring of blue around the pupils of his eyes. His lips look soft and pliant compared to the rest of his face, an oddly seductive dichotomy.

Okay, you need to _snap out of it._ Right now. You sound like a freaking romance novel. 

"Um, thanks," you say. "I could use some help."

He drops you a nod, and the two of you leave the room. You're still blushing. It's chronic—it's like you can't stop, no matter how hard you try. You bite your lip again. The skin is bruised and sore, and Lady Hisa is likely to squawk like a demented pigeon when she sees it. You could hardly care less.

You walk past the dwarf boar statue and glare at it as you pass. Stupid, elusive statue. It just had to be on the left corridor and you'd walked right. 

Finally you arrive at your door. Thorin leans on the frame, a brow arched. He folds his arms. "Thanks," you mutter. 

His brow climbs. "It was nothing."

You shrug, shuffling your feet. You want to ask him why he and Frerin were fighting earlier that day, but you keep your mouth shut. It isn't your place to ask. 

"I should go read," you say, and at the same time Thorin says, "I should go train."

Both of you blush. "Sorry," you say at the same time.

Dammit. Could this get any more awkward? 

Your eyes lock. You could get lost in those eyes, dark blue, gray in the light, vivid in the shadows. He's got a good two inches on you, and not for the first time you wonder how it would feel if you touched his hair. He's got nice hair.

Wow, that sounded stupid.

You blush and break the eye contact, feeling a sort of slow heat buzzing in your stomach. He smells distracting. And he feels distracting if he's standing so close. And he definitely looks distracting. 

"I should—I'll just—" You reach behind you to put your hand on the doorknob. You swallow. 

His eyes flick to yours. There's something there, something you can't identify. He blinks, then it's gone. He steps back, and you feel the lack of his nearness like a physical blow to the senses. You lean on the door for support.

"Well—see you tomorrow, I suppose," he says, and you nod shakily before you turn and slip into your room, closing the door quickly and then leaning against it, fisting a hand into your hair and wondering what the hell he'd just done to you.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Love is a song that never ends."_
> 
> _-Bambi_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took a while... next one will come in hopefully sometime in the middle or end of the week. Hope you like this one!

You roll out of bed the next morning, rubbing at your eyes as you do. Weak daylight—so it's just after dawn—filters in through the skylight, slicing through the dark and forcing your eyelids open. You swing your legs over the side of the bed, wondering why you feel so warm and fuzzy inside. Then you remember getting lost, finding the music, seeing Thorin. Thorin walking with you to your room. Thorin looking at you. Thorin talking to you. _Thorin._ His name repeats itself in your head, never tiring of the way your tongue curls around the syllables of his name, the slight sigh at the beginning, the drop off the end. 

God, you're a cliché. 

Rolling your eyes at your own foolishness, you head to the bathroom. You hardly know him. There's no need for you to get all... affected by him. Even if you're engaged to him. You're supposed to hate him, remember?

You nod as if to convince yourself, dropping your robe and stepping into the bathtub. The water surrounds you, hot and steaming and silky. You scrub yourself with the vanilla soap, not really looking at what you're doing. You've memorized your schedule, and sadly your brief stretch of happiness has come to an end—your first class is with Lady Hisa today. 

You emerge from the bathroom with a cloud of steam billowing behind you, wrapped in a robe. Lyvya chirps out a good morning, smiling at you while she fluffs the pillows. You murmur your own greeting, looking down at your dress for the day. It's as if there's a dress for every day of the week and every week of the month and every month of the year. Like they never run out of dresses. Today, you're dressed in a dark, rich plum color, with bronze embroidery and lace, and a neckline so low it's totally embarrassing. 

"Does everyone dress like this?" you ask, frowning at the neckline. You're not used to seeing so much of your skin before. It's disconcerting.

"Like what, miss?" She adjusts the hem, brushing some microscopic dust off of it.

"Like... well, so... so weirdly. In dresses this revealing."

"I'm afraid so, miss." She steps back, sweeping your hair into a loose but neat bun at your nape, then dusting powder onto your face. You refrain from making a face with difficulty. 

"I think you look lovely," she says breezily. "You have your schedule, miss?"

"Yep." You pluck the paper off the desk, waving it in the air. You tuck it into a small pocket in your dress, and after you step into your bronze colored shoes, you're swept off to breakfast by a frantically whispering Lyvya, who's telling you the names of all the nobles who'll be at lunch that day.

"And they'll only all leave after the Summer Ball," she concludes, then propels you through the doors, melting into the shadows with a final wave and a promise of, "When you call me, I'll come!"

You head into breakfast, trying not to wilt at the thought of having etiquette after this. You perk up when you see Fíli wave at you with his gap-toothed grin, holding a buttered roll. You sit right next to him.

"Good morning, Fíli," you say, and he giggles, waving his roll at you. You laugh and tug on one of his little golden braids, the soft strands tangling around your fingers.

"They remind me of my little brothers at home," says a voice, and you turn to see Yraena, smiling wistfully at Kíli, who's sitting on Frerin's shoulders across the table. 

"You have brothers?"

She nods, still looking at Kíli. "Triplets. They're about as old as Fíli."

"Are they here?"

"No." She turns to you, her black eyes unreadable. "They're coming for the ball, then the wedding, then they're going back."

And she'll never see them again. She will, but rarely. They'll barely know her. You don't think you can think of anything worse than that.

You say nothing, choosing silence. Yraena doesn't seem like the kind of girl who appreciates pity. Instead you eat in silence, which is broken only by the door opening.

You look up through your lashes and freeze, your fork halfway to your mouth. You force yourself to continue eating normally, despite the blush that stains your cheeks as Thorin walks in. You look determinedly down at your plate, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of knowing that it's him who's making you blush so much. 

Despite your best efforts, your blush heightens when he sits down across from you. Against your will your mind drags you back to the previous day, highlighting everything you could have done and everything you didn't do. Like how you'd just stared at him for about twenty seconds without saying anything. 

You sit straighter, ignoring him. Yraena is looking at you out out of the corner of her eye, her gaze flicking between you and the dwarf across from you. You furiously wipe your face blank, shutting all your expression off. 

Yraena leans over to you. "Do you still have protocol?"

You turn to her, nodding. "Till the ball, I guess." 

"I see." She frowns prettily. "When can you start training?"

You shrug. "A month, maybe?"

She grins now. It's a dangerous grin, like this girl hides steel knives under her porcelain doll-like looks. "I can't wait for you to start training. It's going to be so much fun."

"What's your weapon of choice?" asks Thorin from across the table, eyes narrowed at her as if trying to deduce it from her stance, the way he'd done for you. For some reason you're reminded of that TV show you used to watch, _Sherlock_ , and the way he'd be able to tell everything about everyone just by looking at them. You blink, and the image is gone. It's getting fainter and fainter, the memories of your old life. You grapple at them, trying to preserve them, but they're slipping away. You wonder if one day there'll be nothing left. 

Yraena only smiles her razor blade smile. "You'll see today."

She turns to you again. "I'll bet you an extra roll at dinner if you beat him in a fight today," you murmur, nodding at Thorin, who raises a brow at you. Her smile widens.

"Done. I'll bet another roll that I'll beat him in less than two minutes."

Your lips twitch. "Deal. You sound pretty sure."

"Oh, I am sure. I'd bet less than one minute, but that would seem narcissistic."

You burst out laughing. Yraena joins you after a minute and the two of you clutch each other like teenage girls, giggling uncontrollably. Thorin rolls his eyes at you, like he heard what you'd said, mouthing something like, _You are so losing._

You only laugh harder.

+++

"Mahal, dear girl, it's as if you don't understand Westron," snaps Lady Hisa, scowling at you. You say nothing, thrusting your chin up. "How many times do I have to tell you to stop biting those lips of yours?"

You stubbornly stay quiet.

"It looks horrid," she shudders. "We'll have to do something about that. But that is not my focus today. Today," she announces ominously, "we are working on something much more different."

She smiles evilly and sits down across from you, crossing her legs daintily. She fixes you with her piercing eyes. They're such a warm color, but they're so cold. 

"I will ask you a question, and you will reply. Honestly, dishonestly, it matters not. I need charm! Tact! Smiling! Not sulking and scowling. Do you hear me?"

"Yes, Lady Hisa."

"You are betrothed to the prince," she says, her eyes seeming to penetrate into you, finding exactly the right questions that'll make you squirm. "How are you coping with this arrengement?"

For some horrible reason, you blush. "I'm coping fine," you mutter. _Not that that's any of your business._ "Everything is fine."

"Oh, spare me." She glares at you. "I need something better than that, go on. Lie, even if you must—the people need something spicy to look forward to, not _everything is fine._ " 

You swallow down a scathing retort. "I didn't get what you meant by 'coping'," you say through gritted teeth. "Please elaborate?"

She peers at you critically. "Has he bedded you yet?"

Your mouth falls open. Outraged, you splutter, "That is none of your business! I—we don't even—how could you ask me—no, I haven't even—we're not—"

"Speak clearly, for Mahal's sake!" 

"No!" you say, blushing. "And that is not your concern."

Her smile is colder than ice. "Well, the people do want to know things."

"Things I don't want to tell them!"

"You cannot control that, sweet girl. They will walk all over you and laugh while doing it. I am simply—"

"Doing it before they can?" You're still outraged. And to make things worse, you're still blushing. You exhale, glaring at her.

"I am simply preparing you for it. They will ask you things that make this seem childish."

"Oh, yeah? Like what?"

Her smile widens. "Well, they can ask for secrets, dear. Things much more intimate than just confirmation that you two are—"

"Well, we're not!" You look away, your face feeling hot. "We just met."

"Hmm." She looks you up and down. "Usually it is common among kings and princes to take their betrothed to bed the night they are asked to wed. Did the prince—"

"Can we please not talk about this?" You drop your face into your hands, sighing. "Ask me something, anything else—"

"So am I to assume he did?"

"No!" You groan into your hands. "Just—there's nothing between us."

She raises a brow. 

"Yet," you bite out. "There is nothing between us... yet. Okay? Happy?"

She smiles. "Not quite. Anyhow, it is quite clear you are unused to being asked personal questions. Let's see... how do the customs of your home court and ours differ?"

You try to shake off the blush. "Well, here, they focus a lot more on... position, of the King. At home, it's more liberal, and the people have more of a say—"

"Yes, yes, quite. Next question." You frown. "Many women had been hoping to tie themselves to Durin's house. With your arrival there was quite a commotion. What do you have to say about that?"

You scowl at her. "They'll have to deal with my being here, I guess. Since he's..." _no longer available._

"Since he's yours," sneers Lady Hisa.

"That's not what I was—"

"Next question!" she interrupts. "How are you finding the proceedings of court?"

"Uh... normal, I suppose? Fine. They're good, I guess?" 

She sniffs. "Next question."

+++

Four hours later, you stalk out of the room, frustrated, angry and tired. You'd had to endure hours of her horrible questions, her jibes, her pokes, her sneers. She kept asking you horribly personal questions that made you blush and stutter. And then you'd get yelled at for it.

You stomp into dinner, and your mood plummets further.

There's nobody there but Thorin. 

You plop into the seat across from him, sighing and putting your face into your hands. You close your eyes and try to feel better since you're free for the rest of the day. It works, a little.

"Don't fall asleep there," says Thorin's voice. "Are you okay?"

"Fine," you snap. 

You see him raise an eyebrow through your fingers. "Am I supposed to understand that as 'no'?"

You sigh. "You can understand it however you want. I'm just so done with Lady Hisa and her asking me terrible questions about whether you've—" You slam your mouth shut before you can say too much.

"Whether I've what?" He looks amused.

You lift your head wearily. "Nothing." 

"I'm not sure 'nothing' can make you look like that."

You sigh. "Just drop it."

He looks puzzled. "Drop what?"

"The subject." He looks blank, and you sigh. "It's a—never mind, just—leave it."

He looks dubious, but says nothing. After a few minutes of silence, you say, "Do the people usually ask you weird questions?"

He frowns at you. "Like what?"

You shrug. "I don't know... questions that make it feel like they want to know everything about your life, and to hell with privacy, sort of questions?"

His stormy blue eyes are unreadable. "Sometimes they do. Why?"

"She was preparing me for that, is all."

His eyes clear as he seems to understand what you'd said earlier. "Oh... she didn't ask if we..." He swallows and itchy heat crawls up the back of your neck. Your whole body is aware of everything; how close your hands are to his on the table, the way your foot is brushing his, the single curl of black hair falling into his eyes that you really, really want to brush back. 

You blush and clear your throat. "She did."

He looks down. You look determinedly at the wall opposite, wanting to crawl into a hole and die or something, but you only say, "Well, I told her it wasn't her business, so..."

He huffs out a small laugh. "Well, it isn't."

"Exactly." 

Your eyes lock for a second too long. You look away, biting your lip.

"Y/N," he says, and your eyes snap to his, and he opens his mouth to say something—

With a mighty clang, the doors burst open, startling you out of your daze. You look quickly towards the doors, your breath too short. Your heart is beating way too fast. Is that normal?

"Y/N! Thorin!" calls Dís' voice, and then she's sweeping up the table, dropping a kiss onto your cheek and flicking one of Thorin's braids. She sits down elegantly next to you, sighing dramatically. "It's been such a long day, brother dear," she says, apparently not noticing how both of you are staring at the tablecloth with a suddenly developed fascination. "So much to do!"

She smiles at you. "How fares the new princess?"

You force yourself to smile at her. "I'm fine, Dís. Classes were a menace, though."

"Obviously." She butters a roll. "Lady Hisa is a walking, talking disaster."

"Funny," you mutter, "she said the same thing about me."

Dís laughs. "Don't get too disheartened," she says, patting your shoulder. "You'll get used to her. Moreover, it's only a month more!"

"Oh, goody," you say, rolling your eyes.

"Y/N," calls another voice, and then Yraena is pulling up the chair next to you, grinning with sweat gleaming on her face and her hair all mussed. "Two extra rolls for me."

You turn and raise your eyebrows at Thorin, who gives you a look like, _What can I do?_

You grin at Yraena. "You beat him?"

She smiles. "Forty-five seconds."

"Damn, girl," you say, shaking your head and passing her the rolls. "Forget two, you can have the whole basket."

She giggles and takes one. "He was quite surprised."

You give your future husband a sideways look. "I'd have paid to see that."

He studiously ignores you. 

"So," you say, scooting closer to her. "Tell me all the juicy details."

Yraena grins at you.

+++

"And then she asked me all these disgusting questions!" you say, throwing your hands up in frustration. "It was horrible. She had no respect for my privacy!"

"Not many people will, miss," says Lyvya, frowning up at you. "You should be glad she's only training you and it wasn't really, well, you know. Real."

"I guess." You frown. "But it was... She asked me if Thorin had taken me to bed yet. Can you believe her nerve?"

Lyvya hides her smile. "Well..."

"Ugh!" You bury your head under your pillow. "I didn't know whether to puke or throw my shoe at her head."

"I'm sure you should be glad you didn't do either, miss," she says. "But... has he?"

"Lyvya!" You pull your head out of your pillow to glare at her. She holds both her hands up in surrender, but she's smiling. 

"I don't think I'll be able to handle it anymore after this week," you say. "I'll go crazy."

"Look on the bright side, miss," says Lyvya. "At least you're getting trained to get used to this."

"Mmh." You sigh. "Maybe."

"Now when some irritating noble—not to pinpoint, but it's generic—anyhow, when some irritating noble asks you that, you'll know what to say."

"Yeah. I'll say, _bugger off_."

"Ah, miss, don't be like that!" She stifles her giggles. "Though you'll probably be thinking that."

"I'm always thinking that."

"Even now?"

You laugh. "Not now, but—most of the time."

You sit in silence for a few minutes.

"I don't know what I'm going to do," you say at last. "I'll be a horrible princess. I've never done this, never."

"And that's why you're learning now," says Lyvya, stepping forward and taking your hands in hers. "I'm positive you'll be an amazing princess. The best there ever was. You don't need to know how a courtroom works. Or how to dress or how to sit. You're kind, and compassionate, and you've never treated anyone wrong. And you'll be a good, faithful wife, and even if you may not be ready yet, someday you will be. And when you are, you won't need anyone anymore. Everyone will need you."

You blink back tears. "What did I do to get a friend like you, Lyvya?"

She smiles. "I'm just your maid, miss."

"No. You're not only that. Don't ever say that."

She gives you a watery smile. It's only then you realize her eyes are wet. 

"What happened?"

She shakes her head. "Nothing's wrong, miss."

"Lyvya... I want you to call me by my name. Normally."

She shakes her head, drawing away and wiping at her eyes. "Begging your pardon, miss, I... I can't do that. You should get some sleep now."

"But—"

"Shush. Now go to bed." She tucks you in, and with a pat on the cheek and another watery smile, she leaves the room.

+++

"Step this way, now that way," instructs Dís, who's hovering nearby like a mother hen. You're standing rather awkwardly with Frerin, who's your dance partner for practice. Yraena and Thorin are paired too, but you can't see them from where you're standing.

"What way?" asks Frerin, sounding bewildered. "This way?" He moves left and promptly steps on your foot.

"Ow," you mutter.

"Ah, sorry, Y/N." He pulls you upright. "I'm a right old clumsy oaf when I can be." 

"It's okay." You sigh, sagging in his arms. He grins at you, but he looks tired and sweaty and bored too. "I hate dancing," he mutters to you.

You snort. "Really? Could've fooled me."

He rolls his eyes.

"Now, step this way! No, right—the other way!" Dís orders, swooping in. Frerin mutters something unsavory about older sisters and dancing under his breath, but complies, moving the way she instructed. You do too, trying hard not to step on his foot. 

"Now, step back, and turn, and step right, then forward!" says Dís to you and Yraena.

"What?" you say at the same time. 

"For Mahal's sake—" She rubs her hands across her face. "This is hopeless."

"You think?" asks Thorin, and you can practically hear him rolling his eyes. "Look, Dís, why don't you just demonstrate instead of putting us through this..."

"Torture?"

"Well, not really—yes, torture." He breaks away from Yraena and stand there with his arms crossed. "It'll be easier."

She looks around warily, twisting her thick black tresses into a knot at the back of her head. "I don't suppose any of you are volunteering?"

Silence.

"I thought so. Fine, then. Frerin, get your useless bum over here."

"My what?"

"You heard me."

He grumbles something about how his bum is anything but useless, then walks over to his sister, scowling. "Dís, if you're going to—" He breaks off with a very unmanly shriek as his sister pulls him into position, her hand tight on his shoulder.

"This way," she instructs, but Yraena, Thorin and you are all too busy laughing at Frerin to listen properly. When she finishes demonstrating, Frerin tears himself away with a growl, then stalks over to the three of you, who are still giggling a bit.

"Laugh away," he says, pointing to his brother. "You're next."

"What? But I—"

"Thorin!" Dís barks. "Come on, we don't have all day!"

"No way am I—"

"Oh, grow up," snaps Dís. "Come here."

Thorin's muttering as he heads off wearily towards his sister. "I—"

"No excuses." 

Two minutes later an irate Thorin joins you again. 

"That wasn't so much a demonstration as it was a humiliation," he mutters.

"Well, it was your idea," you say cheerfully. 

"Don't remind me."

"All right! Now, Frerin with Yraena and Thorin with Y/N. We're trying this again," says Dís, advancing with a scowl on her face. "Let's see if you're any better."

Your heart flutters, but you force the shivers down as Thorin steps in and takes your hands. It's not like you haven't danced with him before. It'll be a piece of cake... right? 

Wrong.

The dance is okay. You're fine. You can do it passably. It's you you're worried about. You, and how you're acting. You can hardly look him in the face without turning into a blushing mess. 

"Now... left," says Dís.

Thorin seamlessly guides you left, his breath ghosting across your neck, a featherlight feeling on the exposed skin. You shiver, trying not to notice how the collar of his shirt is gaping open at the front, and you can see his sweat-slicked skin gleaming an inch from your nose. As he shifts, the collar dips further and you blush, turning away.

"Excellent. That's good," says Dís. "All right, that's it for today."

You step back, untangling your fingers from Thorin's. You both move back, stepping backwards at the same time, Thorin's hands still outstretched. Dís is saying something about how we should come the next day as well at the same time and everything, but it sounds muffled and far away, drowned out by the roaring in your ears. 

"Tomorrow, then," says Dís, and you tear your eyes away from your betrothed, turning and hurrying out of the room before he can say something that'll make you feel worse, his hand still hovering in the air where he'd held you.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"The love that lasts the longest is the love that is never returned."_
> 
> _–William Somerset Maugham_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fluff, my good friend, how I love thee! Hope you like this chapter, and leave a review to let me know what you think! Thanks to everyone who dropped kudos and comments so far. Love you all.

The iridescent eyes of Instructor Faryn gaze out at you, unreadable and opaque. He's sitting at the desk with his arms crossed, looking at you shrewdly. You're sitting across from him, the huge history book in Westron open in front of you. 

"Any questions?" he asks, raising a blond eyebrow. His hair is loose today, and it's a lot shorter than any of the other dwarves here—it just tickles his collarbone. He leans forward.

"Yes," you say. "The elves—the Wood Elves—they live in the forest a few leagues away?"

"They do. The Wood, it was once called the Great Greenwood of Old, bordering the Greenway, bursting with life and liveliness. The elves who resided there were equally as lively. But then the illusion set in."

"Illusion?"

"A dark magic, settled over the forest, turning the leaves black and gray, turning the mist thick and heavy with magic and illusion. It rendered the forest dangerous and unpredictable, and so the elves changed with it, the same way. They are less wise, and more dangerous. Erratic, I suppose one would call it. They are isolationists. Not friendly. Thus the people began to call it _Mirkwood_."

You frown. "But their king. You don't trade with them?"

"Oh, we do. It's only that we do not see him very often. King—"

"Thranduil," you say, frowning at the book. "Right?"

"Yes, Thranduil. And his son—"

"Prince Legolas."

"Indeed. He is a haughty elf, even more haughty than the rest of his race. His pride is what makes it most difficult to have his realm as a trade partner, though Dale needs them more than we do."

"Dale is right outside the gates."

"Half a league away, no more. It is a two day march till Mirkwood and Thranduil's halls within, one day if you go by the Long Lake."

He clears his throat and sits back, crossing one leg over the other. He regards you with an expression somewhere between knowing and guessing. He seems to be deep in thought. There's silence for a good five minutes, then:

"I imagine you are finding life here quite difficult."

"Am I that obvious?" you sigh. "Yes, it's difficult here. It's really different from home."

"Hmm. I imagine it's quite a far cry from the way things were done at your home."

"It is."

"Though I wonder..." He squints at you. "You must get used to it, being from another world and all." His eyes glitter out at you from behind his glasses.

Your first instinct is denial, fear rushing through you. "I'm from another kingdom, not—"

"How did you fall through?" he interrupts. "Some sort of portal? Perhaps a warp in the structure of the universe? Time?"

You gape at him. "I—I don't—I don't know what you're—"

He sighs and takes off his glasses, then wipes them on his shirt, then puts them back on. "Princess Y/N. I'm afraid there is no point. I know there is no such kingdom as the one you say you are from. I recognized the signs immediately. They chose to hide you in plain sight and present you as a long-lost princess, which is what any afraid royal family would do. It was well done, but I already had my suspicions about your origins. This has never happened before, of course, but our world cannot be the only one, can it?"

You swallow. "But I... you're not going to..."

"Tell anyone? Of course not. I suspected the moment you arrived here unannounced, unprecedented. I would rather not risk the wrath of the King, nor would I wish to give away your secret."

You look down. "So now you know. I'm a fraud—I'm not a real princess." You sigh. "How did you guess?"

He smiles beatifically. "You look unlike any other princess I've seen—entirely human, but the height of a dwarrowdam. Your hair is an unusual length and an unusual style. You stature is unlike the men of Middle-earth or even the surrounding lands. Your accent, your dialect, your way of speech, is all unlike anything I have ever heard. Darktrees was a small kingdom outside Middle-earth, but it was too small and bereft of trade to last very long. It is true that a dwarrowdam from the Iron Hills went there, but we never knew what became of her. It was a well-crafted story, and smartly done as well. But I saw through it immediately. You arrived here so quickly, so suddenly. There have been rumors, of dwarrow and elves disappearing from the face of this world, never to be seen again. I realized perhaps the same had happened to you."

You say nothing. What can you possibly say? You've blown your cover. You failed. He knows. 

"You needn't despair," Faryn says. "Nobody else could have guessed. Now, keep that book away. We have a new agenda in this class. History, yes, but now we have an important mission, a mystery to solve."

You frown at him, closing the book. "And what's that?"

He grins at you. You realize suddenly that he's very young, probably as young as Thorin, but he buries it under his books. His eyes sparkle like diamonds, every shade of blue.

"We are going to find out why you're here."

+++

"Late again," sighs Lady Hisa. The room smells like tea, probably because she's holding a steaming cup of it, her fingers neat and her posture perfect. She sneers as you mutter an apology. You'd spent the better part of the last few hours doing research with Faryn, who you'd realized is actually a really cool person to hang out with after you'd gotten past the whole I-know-how-you-came-here thing. He's smart, and he's so intelligent it's crazy he's not something a lot bigger than Erebor's historian. It seems like wasted potential.

"Now, sit." She places her cup of tea on the table, smiling in a way that makes you think, _uh-oh._ "Today we are doing something a bit different."

She clears her throat. "Posture erect," she calls. "Stand up."

You do it. Your dress—a heavy number made from blue-green satin and white lace, and looks like the ocean—swishes around your feet, rippling like waves. She peers at you with a frown.

"Satin? Too light, too sheer. Wait here." She stalks over to a cupboard and draws out something black and voluminous. She holds it out in one of her taloned fingers and jerks her head in the direction of a small changing room. "Come along."

Once inside with the door firmly closed, she orders you to strip out of your present dress. You manage not to snap at her but do it, and she dresses you in the other black one she'd brought out. 

"Now come out," she orders, and you clutch your ribs, feeling the bodice crushing your body as you leave the room, gasping with tears in your eyes. Once you're in the middle of the room, you glance at the mirror.

It's the heaviest dress you've ever worn, thick with work and embroidery and lace. The hem is longer than any of the dresses you've worn so far, and it's also the most revealing. The neck plunges so low that half your chest is uncovered, and it's strapless, and backless, showing off your shoulders and collarbone and what looks like miles and miles of bare skin. The dress, so tight that it crushes you, clings to your every curve.

"I'd never wear something like this," you protest.

"Nonsense," she snaps. "Now wear these." She gives you a pair of shoes that look like torture instruments. Seven inch heels and platforms. You're as tall as you used to be before you fell into Middle-earth with them on. 

"Now walk," she orders.

You take a step, and you trip. Regaining your balance, you take another step, then trip again. And again. And again. And again.

"This is hopeless," sighs Lady Hisa after you trip for the eighth time. "Hasn't your maid given you dresses like this?"

"No," you say through gritted teeth. "Because she knows I'll never wear it."

"Don't be ridiculous. Without a dress like this, they'll never be able to tell you're a woman at all!"

"And what," you bite out, "is that supposed to mean?"

"Why don't you figure it out yourself, since you're such a smart little girl?" she asks indifferently, and waves a hand. 

"You do realize I'm engaged?" You swivel around to look at the back of the dress. "I'm meant to be dressed demurely."

"Where on earth did you get that idea?" She sneers. 

"Isn't it a norm or something?" You inspect the front of the skirt, and the thigh-high slit that shows off your legs whenever you walk. "I look like a hooker."

"A what?"

"Nothing," you mutter.

"Hmm. Come here, girl, your hair ruins the whole look." She sweeps your hair up into a neat twist, securing it with pins before adjusting the neck of the dress. You glance at the mirror again, and groan internally when you see that now without your hair to cover it the dress looks even worse. Your whole back is exposed, and your throat and your arms, and your legs scissor out when you walk. 

"There's no way I'm wearing something like this in public," you say.

Her smile doesn't make you feel any better. "Whatever you say, dear."

You're just going to snap back at her when there's a knock at the door. "Come in," calls Lady Hisa, and the door opens, revealing a frowning Thorin. 

You silently curse fate and call it every bad word and mean name you can think of, scrambling backwards and hoping he doesn't notice you or something. It doesn't work. 

"I came to call—" He breaks off and stares at you like he's never seen you before. His eyes go wide. "Y/N?"

You blush furiously and stand straighter. "Hi." 

He just stares at you. 

"Prince Thorin?" prompts Lady Hisa, a wicked gleam in her eye. "You were saying?"

He tears his eyes away from you and blinks at Lady Hisa. "Oh. My sister was calling Y/N. I was told to bring her. Immediately."

"Well, go on then, dear," says Lady Hisa, smiling widely. "Don't want to be late, do you?"

"Yeah—I'll just go change—," you begin.

"No, go now," says Lady Hisa. "I'll send your other dress up to your room."

She practically shoves you out the door and into the corridor, then slams the door in your faces, so loudly the sound echoes around the corridor. 

"She's friendly," you mutter.

"Y/N," he says, and his voice sounds oddly constricted. "What in Durin's name are you wearing?"

You blush again, looking down. "She made me wear it for practice. It's heavy and... kind of revealing, but..."

He's just looking at you with this wide-eyed stare. You blush again, fidgeting with the bodice. "What?" you ask defensively.

He blinks.

"Wow. Do I look that bad?" you ask weakly, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. 

"No," he says unexpectedly. "No, it's... you look... you look good."

You bite your lip, looking down. "Um, thanks."

A second later you feel a soft, warm touch at your lips as Thorin brushes his fingers across your mouth. "Don't bite your lip," he murmurs, and your teeth free your lower lip under his touch. With an effort you look up, your gaze latching onto his. His fingers are still at your lips, unmoving, and briefly you wonder what it would feel like if it was his mouth instead of his fingers—

"Dís was calling you," he murmurs as if in a trance, not looking away from you. Your chest is rising and falling heavily, your fingers gripping the skirt of your dress. He blinks once, then twice, then drops his hand from your mouth, stepping back. The dazed look vanishes from his eyes. "She asked me to bring you. Come on." With that he turns abruptly and strides away down the corridor, leaving you standing there with your lips still tingling from the memory of his touch.

+++

"Ah, Y/N," says Dís as you and Thorin walk in. "Good, you're here. There's a very important lunch today, everyone is there. I need you to get dressed and then come back here and then I can tell you what to do—" She breaks off, squinting. "What on earth are you wearing—oh, practice?"

You sigh and nod. 

"Go change now, and you," she waves at Thorin, "go with her, I've already asked Yraena and Frerin to go. Go on now, and be quick!"

And then you're herded back the way you came.

You're nearly at your room when you trip over the hem of your dress, grabbing the nearest thing for balance as a gasp escapes your lips. Unfortunately, said nearest thing happens to be your future husband's arm. He grabs you and holds you up, pulling you to your feet. You manage to stutter out a thanks when you realize he's laughing. 

You scowl at him, tugging your skirt down. "What now?"

He just laughs harder, his hand still pressed to the small of your back, which is bare because of the dress. His skin is warm, and you shiver at the contact. 

"Nothing, it's just—" He sighs, but he's still smiling a little. "You look so uncomfortable in this dress."

"Why shouldn't I be? Look at this thing, I'm barely dressed. And these stupid heels!" You gesture at yourself. You take a step forward and promptly trip again, falling forward this time. His arms circle your body, pulling you against him. You're as tall as he is in the heels, if not taller, and your fingers clutch his shoulders for support. You're pressed against him, his hands warm on your shoulder blades, the skin-to-skin contact sending spikes of sensation all over your body. You breathe the same breath, and you can see every starburst of darker blue in his eyes, and see his lips part, soft and slightly chapped. Have his eyes always been so dark a blue? You bite your own lip, unable to look away from them.

His gaze drops to your lips, and your whole body tightens. His fingers spread across your back, pressing you further into him. You inhale his intoxicating scent, feeling it hit you like a drug, the most powerful aphrodisiac you've ever been exposed to. You _want_. You don't know what you want, but there's a pull inside you that's unmistakable. And it terrifies you.

"I told you not to bite your lip," he says softly. His voice is slightly ragged. "It's... distracting."

You blush, and before you can free your lower lip, one of his hands unwraps from your waist and his fingers grasp your chin, his thumb running along your lower lip, tugging it free. His hand moves up, cradling your face, bringing it closer and closer to his own—

The sound of the stone gates of the Mountain opening echoes through the stone hall, and you pull away from Thorin, nearly stumbling as you do. He moves forward as if to steady you again, but you move back further, your heart slamming in your chest. Vibrations of the opening gates tremble through the floor, making your teeth rattle slightly. Your whole body feels super-sensitized.

"I'm sorry," you say almost blindly. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have..." You trail off. Shouldn't have what? Allowed him so close? Let him touch you like that? _Liked_ it when he touched you like that? Wanted him to keep touching you like that? You take another step backwards, dazed. You don't know what to think. 

He's looking at you, just looking at you. There's nothing in his face that betrays any expression. Your gut twists. Did he feel nothing? How could he feel nothing? You don't think you can bear it if he feels nothing. 

"You can tell Dís I'm coming," you say, turning away almost blindly. "I'll be there in a minute."

You start towards your room, holding your skirts up, affording Thorin an eyeful of your bare back as you walk away. Ignoring how flustered you feel about that, you make to leave, focusing on putting one foot in front of the other and not tripping. You reach your door, trying to steady yourself. You'll never forgive yourself if you trip now—

"Y/N, wait—," hisses Thorin's voice, and there's a flash of dark blue and black. Suddenly he's sliding between you and the door, a hand on the doorknob, effectively stopping you. You manage to muster a scowl and a huff.

"What is it, Thorin? You know we have to leave."

He says nothing. He's looking at you, right at you. Nobody has ever looked at you like that before, like he sees you as you. Nothing else, all pretence stripped away. You can't believe you'd ever thought there was no expression on his face. When you speak, your voice trembles slightly.

"Thorin?"

He says your name, softly, in reply. The sound of your name like that in his mouth makes shivers dance down your spine and down to your bones. Your hand reaches out, almost against your will, settling onto his chest, feeling his heart beating under your spread fingers. It's the first time you've touched him like this, voluntarily. 

And you want more.

Your other hand reaches out too, but it ventures forth with less caution, moving to the vulnerable sweep of his throat, your thumb stroking along his skin. He's everywhere, he's everything—all your senses are blinded by him. He's all you can feel, all you can smell, his erratic breath is all you can hear, he's all you can see. Now if only you could taste him—

You rip yourself away from him, reeling backwards as if drunk into the corridor, fetching up against the opposite wall. What on earth had you just done? Why had you touched him like that? You aren't allowed to touch him like that—not in your head. You're supposed to keep away from him, not do what you'd just done, lost control of whatever had actually happened. You're supposed to feel bad; then why does something inside you feel perversely satisfied? 

He seems dazed, looking at you almost lazily from under a hooded, glittering gaze. It's predatory, consuming. You feel like you'll burst into flames if he keeps looking at you like that. 

Somewhere far below, a bell starts to ring.

You lurch to your feet, stumbling towards the door. "We're late," you mutter, trying to ignore how close he's standing. You can feel his breath on the curve of your neck as you push the door open, not looking at him. He steps back, still looking at you, as you make to close the door.

"Y/N—"

"Not here, Thorin. Not now."

"If not now, then when?" He wedges his foot through the gap in the door, forcing it open a little more. Your bottom lip snags on your teeth as his blazing eyes lock onto yours. 

"Look," you say. "I don't know what happened, I'm sorry if I... did anything that was uncalled for. Okay? I don't know what..." You trail off, biting your lip harder. His eyes drop and you stop biting it, blushing furiously.

"Thorin, stop it. I'll see you there, okay?"

"Stop what?" He pushes the door open more, and you push back, scowling. "You didn't do anything uncalled for," he goes on. "What don't you know?" 

"I don't know, just—" You sigh your frustration. "I'll see you there, Thorin." With that, you push with all your might, managing to close the door and lock it before he can get it open fully.

+++

You resolve to act like nothing happened in the corridor when you go downstairs, even if you might not be able to manage it. It's late, like you'd said, and once you get to the hall, you scan it for a certain dark head and pair of blue eyes, but you don't see them. Breathing a sigh of relief, you locate Yraena and head over to her.

"Am I late?" you ask, nervously adjusting the sleeve of your midnight-blue dress. It's full sleeved and has a high neck, so you're much happier in it than you were in the last one. 

"A little," admits Yraena. "But not too late. What took you so long?"

You blush, and before you can reply, Dís swoops in, smiling at you. "Glad you could make it," she says. "I was beginning to worry. Anyhow, I need you two to mingle. Stay together. Be on your best behavior, be polite, calm and don't be afraid to overdo it. And stick with Frerin and Thorin—where are those nincompoops—?" She swivels around, scanning the crowd. "Find them and stay with them, all right?" When you two nod, she gives you one last smile before making herself scarce. 

"Come on," sighs Yraena. "Let's go husband hunting."

It takes you what feels like an age to find the two brothers, who are thankfully together when you find them. Yraena dutifully glides over to Frerin, though her face is closed and so is his. You remind yourself of your promise to act like nothing happened and hesitantly scoot over to Thorin. 

"You took your time," he notes.

"So what? The less time I spend here the better."

He snorts. "Why do I have the oddest feeling that you'll be the strangest princess Erebor has ever seen?"

"Maybe because I _am_ the strangest princess Erebor has ever seen."

He shakes his head but says nothing, smiling a little. You hide your own smile, which melts immediately off your face when someone—a slender, curvy, silver-haired someone—comes up to you, smiling with her blood-red lips.

Thorin instantly straightens, a wary look flashing across his face. Wow, she was that obvious when she wanted him? Well, she still wants him, but... he knows? You have a split second to decide whether you want to either flip the bird at her or be polite and stick it out. 

You go with option B.

"Lady Saelle. Fancy meeting you here," you say, allowing honey to drip from your words. "It's nice to see you, you look... lovely."

'Lovely' is a matter of perspective here—she's dressed in a jet-black dress whose plunging neckline leaves nothing to the imagination. It's so tight around her hips that you can see every dip and curve. Her eyes are outlined in gold, and some small part of you is jealous. She's so gorgeous, and so comfortable with herself and so able to wear something like that, look good in it, and be okay with it. Her heels are probably six inches long, but she's still shorter than you. 

"I could say the same," she says, but it's more of a sneer. Then she looks away from you like you're not worth her time. "Prince Thorin, it's been too long!"

You grit your teeth and glare into middle distance, trying not to lose it and punch Saelle's perfect teeth in. 

"If I could have a word with you?" she asks sweetly, and you hold back a scathing retort. Thorin hesitates, his hand tightening on yours briefly, so briefly you wonder if you imagined it. "Alone?" she goes on, twirling a thick strand of silver around her finger.

Before he can say anything you step back, dropping her a terse nod before stalking away from them, not looking back as you find Yraena and Frerin.

"Y/N?" says Frerin, frowning. "What happened? Where's Thorin?"

"Talking to Saelle," you mutter.

His eyes darken. "Don't bother, Y/N. She's... been after him for years now. Even he knows—you should've said no."

"Can't say that," you sigh. "It goes against the thing. That conduct thing, I can't deny something like that to her."

"Go rescue him," he suggests. "He looks like he needs rescuing."

You glance across the crowd. "No, he doesn't."

Frerin's eyes clear as they rove between you and where Thorin is standing. "Were you with Thorin before you came here?"

You hesitate. "Yes. Why?"

His eyebrows rise. "You were late, weren't you?"

"Yes, why—?"

"Never mind," he says, though you could swear he's smiling. "Nothing, just go now. I'll see you later. Go rescue my brother now."

He gives you a gentle push, and you frown but walk away, wondering what it is that Frerin knows that you don't. 

Saelle's smile turns into a snarl when she sees you, but she hitches the smile back onto her face in a millisecond. She's too good at this.

Something akin to relief passes through Thorin's eyes when you draw up to them, a fake smile on your face. "If you don't mind, Lady Saelle," you say sweetly, "I must intrude. I need a word with my intended." You stare her down, and she clears her throat, tossing her head.

"I'm afraid we weren't done," she sniffs.

You step forward and lace your fingers with Thorin's, pulling him against you, dangerously close. A clear message that he's taken. By you. "This is important," you say calmly. "Come now, Lady Saelle, would you deny a girl her husband?" 

She grinds her teeth together. "My apologies," she says stiffly. With a jerky nod, she sashays away, her eyes flashing. _He's not your husband yet,_ you think you see her mouth at you as she leaves. You make a face at her. 

"You didn't have to," murmurs Thorin almost sheepishly when she's gone. You're still pressed against him, and you unpeel yourself from him, still gripping his arm. "I think I did have to. You looked like you needed aid rather desperately."

He looks away. "Did I?"

You sigh. "Then you would rather I'd left you to fend for yourself against that rattlesnake? She's so obvious and so clingy and so... I don't know how you haven't lost your mind yet."

His lips quirk up. "Me neither."

There's silence for a long time. 

"Thank you," he says finally.

"For what?"

"For—"

"Thorin! Y/N!" calls Dís' voice, and both of you turn in unison to see the dwarrowdam in question hurrying towards you. "I need you both to leave."

You frown. "Why?"

"There's a rather important meeting now, with the ministers and all. I'm afraid we all need to go."

"Fine," says Thorin. "Will father—"

"Yes, he's coming. Leave, quickly."

You both hurry away, reaching the doors just as Yraena and Frerin, who seem just as confused as you are, do. 

"A meeting?" asks Frerin. "Now?"

"Must be urgent," mutters Thorin. "Dís told me father is coming."

They must not see him often if they say it like that. He's king, so he'll be busy all the time. They probably don't really see him at all. 

Yraena catches up with you as you're heading up the steps, Frerin and Thorin muttering with their heads together behind you. "That was sudden," she murmurs.

"It was. I wonder what happened."

"It must be very important. I saw the king," she says. You turn a corner, and the ballroom vanishes from sight. "We don't see him very often."

"We don't," she says, and the brothers catch up, both laughing about something Frerin had just said. There's a companionable silence as the four of you walk along the corridor. You trip slightly, slightly enough for it to go unnoticed, but it doesn't. You feel a warm hand on your back, steadying you, fingers spread across the small of your back. You bite your lip, fingers gripping your skirt. Just as quickly as his hand had come it's gone, and you're left to wonder if every time he touches you your heart will skip a few beats like it just did.

Yraena and Frerin are deep in conversation, something you've never seen before—whenever you look at them they're stiff as boards. Now though, she's a lot looser than you've seen her, and she's smiling. You smile a little too as they walk ahead, their voices merging in low tones.

"We've been forgotten," sighs Thorin, leaning against your door. There's an odd expression on his face as he looks at them. 

"So we have." You fold your arms, looking down at your feet. "I'm glad they're kind of... trying to get to know each other."

"Me too. He's a lot more afraid about it than she is. Or I am, or even you are. He didn't want to marry, when we were children. He still doesn't, I think. He thinks it's a burden."

You glance at him curiously. "That's why he was so... stiff?"

"You noticed." It's not a question. 

"Of course I did."

He nods, still looking into the corridor, through which Yraena and Frerin have long since disappeared. "He told me if father would ever make him marry he'd run away. I never believed him, but he always seemed dead serious."

You bite your lip without really thinking about what you're doing. "Well, he didn't run."

"No." He looks at you. 

"Do you ever feel like running away?" you sigh, rubbing a hand across your face.

"Do you?"

"Sometimes," you admit, huffing out a small laugh. "Its tempting, isn't it, the promise of no responsibility, the promise of being your own person, being free?"

He says nothing. There's a naked, unguarded look in his eyes, and for some stupid reason it makes you blush. You look away quickly, your lip catching on your teeth again. 

"Y/N." His voice is a low shiver that crawls up your spine and sends fingers of ice running down your back. You look up again. "I should go," you breathe, putting a hand on the door. 

"Wait. Why are you running away again?" He shakes his head. "Every time I manage to get you to say something you leave."

"I'm not running away," you sigh. "I'm just tired—"

"Don't try that. It won't work." He frowns at you, a hand coming up and settling on the door. You sag, pressing yourself back against the door. "What do you want, Thorin?"

He opens his mouth, and there's a click as a door a few paces away opens, and Lyvya steps out. She catches sight of you and gasps. She squeaks out an apology and a quick, "Your Majesty," then shuts the door with a snap again.

Way to ruin a moment. 

You look at your feet, a thousand butterflies in your stomach. "I—I should go," you murmur, still staring at your feet. 

His hand comes up, cupping your chin and lifting your face to meet his. His finger runs along your lip, making you stop biting it—you hadn't even realized you'd been biting it. That predatory gleam is back in his eye, and this time you have nowhere else to look. There's a stray curl of hair in his eyes again. Your fingers itch to tuck it in place. 

He drops his hand, stepping back suddenly. He blinks once, and his guard is back up. "Fine. I'll see you tonight," he says, then drops you a nod and strides away down the corridor leaving you standing there, legs like jelly and heart slamming in your chest. 

Your lips are tingling again.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"If you love something, set it free. And if it really loves you, it will find a way to come back."_
> 
> _–Selena Gomez_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone. Here's chapter 8, and unfortunately it'll be the last one till the end of the month, I have a wedding to attend (not my own!) and it'll be a few weeks till I can write again. But hope you like this one! I'd love a review. <3

"Are you all right, miss?" Lyvya's voice asks.

You jump, sitting up. You'd been leaning against the headboard, just staring into space. You must've had the stupidest expression on your face. You've never felt more like a lovesick teenager, not even when you _were_ a teenager. 

"Oh, I'm fine," you mutter, running a hand through your hair, successfully mussing it up. 

Lyvya peers at you critically, her verdigris eyes wide. "Miss, I wanted to apologize for... I didn't mean to come into the corridor, I didn't know you and the prince would—"

Your face flushes. "It's all right, how were you to know we'd be there?"

She bites her lip, smiling a little. "I hope I wasn't... interrupting something?"

You blush harder. "No!"

She smiles more. "I'm glad you and him are sorting this all out, miss."

"Sorting out what?" You determinedly keep all the expression off your face.

"All the drama of the past few weeks. I don't think you'd want to wed a stranger." She hesitates. "Or just a friend."

"What do you mean?"

She shakes her head. "It's nothing, miss. I'll be next door, ring if you need anything." She drops a a curtsy and hurries out before you can say anything, the door closing behind her. 

Just a friend... is Thorin just a friend? Maybe. But the way your heart had jumped and done backflips and tap dances suggest otherwise. Okay, maybe you have a small, teeny, tiny, microscopic, little crush on him. Like, it's so small you wouldn't even know it's there if you don't look hard. That's it. It's not like you're... falling in love with him, or anything. That's ridiculous. 

Your fingers reach up, pressing to your lips. You're biting it again. A blush rises in your cheeks as you remember lazy blue eyes and a heavy, hot touch that made you want him to press you up against the wall, made you want it to be his lips and not his fingers—

You bury your head under the covers, forcing the thoughts away. You're not going to think about him. How did he get past your defenses so easily? You're never this easy. You try to think of something, anything else. You fumble for your schedule on your desk, eyes flicking over it. You sigh when you see that first thing the next day is with Lady Hisa.

There's a knock at the door and you scramble to your feet, your heart skipping a beat. Is it—?

"Come in," you call, and Lyvya pokes her head in. You try not to deflate. "What happened?" you ask, putting your schedule onto the desk again. 

"Princess Dís is calling you," she says, and you glance at the clock on the mantel. Just great. Dance lessons. 

"Coming," you sigh. "Just let me change my clothes."

+++

"Don't be so stiff," instructs Dís, tapping your back. "Loosen up. Arms higher."

You obey, lifting your arms a little. The movement pulls you a little closer to your partner. You avert your eyes from him, looking instead at Frerin and Yraena, who are murmuring to each other, low tones that don't carry. You look away before they can catch your eye, not wanting to seem like you're watching them. 

"If I didn't know better, I'd say he was actually trying," murmurs Thorin into your ear, one of his hands heavy on the bend of your waist, the other laced with yours. You huff out a small laugh, and your breath stirs his hair where it's sticking to his neck. "But you do know better?" 

"Now that you mention it, no," he admits. "I did, once, but... looks like he's willing to give it a shot. Though that may be because I knocked sense into his head."

"What did you say to him?" Your fingers brush along the nape of his neck where your hand is on his shoulder, just a small, involuntary movement. The tips of your fingers touch the top bump of his spine, and you could swear you see him shiver, but that's probably just your imagination. 

"I just told him that if he didn't try, he'd make it worse for himself. They wouldn't know each other, and it'd be like marrying—"

"A stranger." 

"Or something along those lines." He sends you a soft, secret smile that makes heat flare up all over your body. "It seems as if my advice has not been ignored."

"By Frerin, at least. It's not uncommon for your advice to someone else to apply to you as well," you say nonchalantly, your hand tightening on his shoulder. He rolls his eyes in reply. "If I wasn't trying, believe me, you would be the first to know."

"And if you are trying?"

His eyes dart to yours and you look away quickly. "I think you'd be the first to know that as well," he says.

Your blush must be pretty deep, because he laughs a little, his hand curving around your hip. "You're very easy to fluster," he informs you archly.

You blush even harder. "Thanks, I knew that. I'll try to tone it down."

"I don't mind," he hums, spinning you expertly. "It's rather adorable."

"Oh, lord." You bite your lip, your face flushing again. Your hand tightens convulsively on his, nearly crushing his fingers. "Is this your definition of 'trying'?" 

He laughs quietly again, his fingers rubbing at yours to loosen their death grip. His thumb strokes slow circles on your knuckles and you sigh, loosening your hand. "Sorry."

"Step forward," calls Dís, hands on her hips. "Then right, then back, then left, then front, then step diagonally to the right!"

"Please repeat?" calls Frerin irritably from somewhere to your left. "Dís, we're not machines. One at a time, woman!" 

She sighs, rubbing her temples. "Step forward. Then right." 

All four of you obey, then she calls, "Now back again, then left! Then another step forward. Then right. diagonally."

Once she's satisfied we can understand what she's telling us, she claps her hands. "All right, five minute break. I need to put the boys to bed." She stomps off in a swirl of skirts. 

You and Thorin both step back, your hands falling away from his. He cracks his knuckles, sighing. "She can be a slave driver when she so wishes."

"You mean all the time," says Frerin's voice, floating over from where he's standing. He mutters something to Yraena and she laughs, pushing her vivid hair out of her face, pulling the curls up into a neat bun at the back of her head, her black eyes glimmering with amusement. 

Thorin gives his brother a look, and he ignores it, turning his back on us. Thorin smirks. "Sore loser," he mutters. "He hates it when I'm right."

"Quite understandable," you say, and he turns to you with his brows raised. "And what is that supposed to mean?"

"It means that when you're right you're insufferable."

"Everyone is insufferable when they're right."

" _I'm_ not."

"That's because you're never right."

"Hey!" You hit his shoulder. "Meanie." 

He's too busy laughing to give you a proper reply. You sniff, folding your arms and turning away as his laughter dies down slowly. "And you're also lots of fun to tease," he says with a sigh once he's sobered. 

"Oh, shut up." 

"Look," he goes on, a smile twisting his lips as he reaches out a hand to touch your cheek. "You're all red."

You bat his hand away, blushing more. "Stop it." 

He chuckles, and then suddenly a brown and yellow blur comes racing in from the corridor and launches itself onto Thorin. The blur resolves itself into the figure of Fíli, who clambers onto his uncle's shoulders like he's climbing a tree. 

"Fíli?" Thorin reaches up, tugging on one of his tiny braids. "What are you doing here?"

"I don't want to go to bed!" he announces. 

You can't help a small laugh as Kíli, who was behind his brother, leaps onto Frerin the same way. "Me neither!"

"Fíli! Kíli!" Dís storms inside the room, her black curls in disarray and her eyes snapping. "Get off your uncles and come to bed, _now_."

"But it's so early!" whines Kíli.

You glance at the time. You still haven't had dinner, but it's only half past eight. When you were a little kid, lights out used to be at half past nine. You used to have a nightlight shaped like the Little Mermaid next to your bed. The memory makes your throat ache.

"Come on now," says Dís, heading to Frerin to disengage her son from him. He bounces Kíli up and down, mussing up his hair and telling him he has to go to bed now, and that he's a good little boy, and won't he just do what his mother tells him? 

"Can we watch you dance?" asks Kíli, turning his wide brown eyes to you. "Please?"

"Yeah!" says Fíli, clutching Thorin's arm. "Can we?"

Thorin and Frerin share one of their communicative looks. "You can't—," begins Dís.

"Of course," says Thorin, hefting Fíli in his arms. "But only for fifteen minutes, then you have to go to bed. All right?"

"Okay!" Fíli says happily, and he and his brother scamper off to the side, sitting down to watch. You wave at them and they wave back, giggling. Dís shakes her head, but she's smiling too. 

"You spoil them," she mutters to Thorin, who grins. "Only because you don't."

She huffs, then pokes his back. "Get into position, don't make me tell you twice."

You step forward dutifully, lacing the fingers of your right hand with his and placing your left hand on his shoulder. His free hand settles on your waist, fingers curling around the bend where your side curves into your hip. You shiver a little. His hair brushes your fingers, just barely. 

Dís is calling out where to step and how to move, and fifteen minutes later she stops again to put the boys to bed, and for real this time, as she says sternly. As she's leaving, she calls, "Good practice, you four. Get dinner now, then go to bed. Tomorrow, same time!"

"My feet hurt," you complain after you and Thorin unpeel yourselves from each other's arms. "And my arms are sore."

The door closes softly, and you blink at the suddenly empty (except for Thorin) room. "Where'd they go?"

"Three's a crowd," he mutters. "Then what's four?" you snort. "A mob?"

"Probably." He raises a brow at you. "Can you blame them for wanting time alone?" 

You flush. _Two can play this game, buddy._ "Well... not really. Sometimes three _is_ a crowd." You look up at him through your lashes, deliberately biting your lower lip. Predictably, and to your chagrin, his gaze drops from your eyes and falls on your lips. You refrain from stepping back with difficulty as he takes a step towards you. 

"I know what you're doing," he murmurs. You fight off a shiver attack, feigning innocence. "What do you mean? I'm not doing anything."

"Liar. You're doing that on purpose."

"Doing what?" You bite your lip again, this time flicking your tongue over the curve. You let your eyes widen innocently. 

His lips part ever so slightly. You feel like you're detached, not in control of what you're doing. Some tiny, depraved little part of you wants to push him as far as he can go, test his reactions, see if you affect him as much as he does you. And it's getting bigger with every passing second.

You let go of your lower lip and allow the very tip of your tongue to flick over your upper lip, wetting it. Your eyes are locked onto his, and he blinks dazedly at you. "Y/N?" He sounds drunk. That other side of you is basking in the unguarded look in his eyes, the roughness of his voice. The normal part of you is just confused and flustered. You're momentarily torn between the two, not knowing which side to act on. 

His eyes drop again, and the darker side wins. You brazenly take a step forward, only an inch separating you, looking up into his face. You whisper his name, reaching up to brush that errant curl of black hair that always falls into his eyes back. Your fingers grow more adventurous, running down his cheek, brushing along the roughness of his beard, touching but not quite touching his lips, shying away every time you get close. You curl your fingers slightly under his jaw, the pads of your fingertips pressing to his skin. Your fingers trail tantalizingly along his lips, and everything below your waist tightens when a soft sound escapes from them.

"Y/N, stop," he bites out, and his fingers wrap around your wrists, forcing your hands down to your sides, stopping you. You're breathing hard, your eyes wide and gazing into his.

"What," you breathe. "Thorin, what?"

"You—we can't. Not now."

"If not now, then when?" you murmur, echoing his earlier words to you the previous day. You strain your wrists, but he holds firm. Your teeth pull at your lip again, this time in concentration as you try to pull your hands out of his. 

" _Don't_ bite," he hisses, and then he gives a sharp tug at your hands. You gasp as your body surges forward, slamming up against his, his fingers lacing with yours. You gasp as you feel his breath on your ear, his voice a rough growl. "You think I couldn't see what you were trying to do?" he whispers, and your back arches slightly into him. "Tease," he breathes.

You squirm helplessly as his lips move on the shell of your ear, and a gasp tears itself from your lips when his teeth follow, a small, sharp, almost punishing nip that makes your lower half clench deliciously. You think you say his name, though you can't be sure, as his head dips, warm lips traveling slowly along the downward sweep of your jaw, light butterfly kisses that set your whole body on fire. You arch your back more as his lips just touch the corner of your mouth, and then—

And then he's drawing away, his hands freeing yours as he steps back. You're gasping, shivering and warm and tingling all over, your chest heaving. His own breath is short and rapid, but the smallest of smiles touches his lips. "Not such a seductress when your hands are tied, are you?" he murmurs, and your cheeks burn. He takes another step back and you swallow hard. 

Just before he leaves the room, he turns. "And if you didn't realize," he says in a low voice that somehow carries, "I wasn't trying."

+++

"Do not make me correct you so many times," snaps Lady Hisa. "I told you two minutes ago to put your hands folded in your lap, where is your mind, dear girl?"

You start, folding your hands again. "Sorry. I was just... thinking."

She glares at you. "Well, stop thinking. It's distracting you. This is most unlike you, what on earth is the matter?"

"Nothing," you say, trying to stop the tidal wave of memories from the previous night that threatens to come crashing down on you. You'd been up nearly all night, replaying it all in your head and thinking of a thousand different ways, better ways, for that... moment to have ended. That temporary insanity between the two of you. That's all it was, wasn't it? Just a... lapse in judgement on both your parts. Of course you hadn't meant to touch him like that. Or even wanted to. 

"Again!" says Lady Hisa, throwing her hands up in the air with a sigh and a huff. "Really, how do you expect this to work if you're not even paying attention?"

"Sorry," you mutter again. "I'll pay attention."

"I certainly hope so." She sniffs. "Anyhow, today I will be questioning you again. I want honesty where you can afford it and creativity where you cannot, do you understand?"

"Yes, Lady Hisa."

"Fine. Now, the Summer Ball is approaching. In a matter of weeks it will be upon you. Whose wedding will it succeed?"

"The Crown Prince and Princess Yraena's," you say, remembering the latter's hesitant face when she'd told you so. "It will be their wedding."

"And you and Prince Thorin," she says with a coy smile. "No date as of yet?"

"None," you say, trying not to sound rude. "Not yet."

"A pity," she says nonchalantly. "I'm sure the kingdom would truly enjoy a double wedding."

"We're not even really stepping out with each other," you snap. "I—we haven't even—it's too soon for a wedding." Why does everything always have to do with him? You can't even study without his name cropping up.

"Not even stepping out?" she asks, and you wish you hadn't even brought it up. "Mahal, and there was me hoping for some bedroom secrets!"

"You know we've never—will you let that go?" you demand, letting your head fall back against the chair. "Let me make it very clear," you say through gritted teeth. "Thorin and I do _not_ have a sex life. We are in no way intimate with each other. Please refrain from asking me questions like that!"

She smiles. "Hardly what you can say to the masses. Mind your tongue, dear girl, they won't be as forgiving of rudeness as I am."

"Why are you so fixated on—"

"Because that is what they will want to know!" She leans forward, eyes snapping. "That is all they will ask. Gossip, dear, gossip. They want to make your private life their own. What goes on behind the bedroom door to them is news, it is important, it is gossip!" She folds her arms. "And if you cannot be honest, then lie."

"What?" you croak. "You want me to make something up?"

"Bluntly put, but essentially yes."

"Now?"

"Go on."

You gape at her. "About... this?"

"Yes, girl, what else?"

"But I... I've never... I don't know what to say." 

"Unless you would like me to feed you lines? Tell you exactly what to say?"

"No!"

"Then speak up, dear girl, go on."

"I..." You trail off, at a loss for words. "I don't know what to say. Really."

"Then allow me—" 

"Can't I just say that I don't want them to know? What about telling them the truth, that there's nothing between us?"

"I'm afraid not. They will not take no for an answer."

"What on earth can they possibly ask? Why do they even care?"

She sighs. "Clearly they did things differently where you came from. They can ask anything, girl, anything! Is he rough, gentle, dominating? Is he—"

"Okay, I got it." Your face feels hot. "Moving on, please."

"This will sting your back one day, mark my words. You'll wish you listened to me then. Anyhow, next question."

You sag in relief, sitting back. "Now," she says, "have you begun training?"

"Dís said in a week or so," you say, glad to be out of the earlier territory. "It'll be adjusted into our schedules."

"And are you proficient in using any particular weapon?"

"Sabers," you say, brimming with excitement. "I love to fence."

"I see. You have had prior practice?"

"Yes, lots. I used to fence every day, back in..." You swallow. "Back home."

"Home... what is home to you? Tell me about Darktrees."

"Um... It was home. It was always pretty warm, and it never snowed. It wasn't nearly as big as this place, and it was... it wasn't much, but it was home."

"You miss it."

"Every day," you admit. Then you frown. "You're not from here either, are you?"

"And what makes you think that?"

"Your accent. And you don't really look much like the other women here."

She regards you unreadably. "I came from Moria, as a child. With my family."

"Oh. Where are they now? Living here? Are you married?"

"In case you had not noticed, dear girl, I am meant to be questioning you. Not the other way around. Curiosity does not become you, so do not act on it."

"Sorry," you mutter. 

"Very well, now. If I'm not mistaken you are to leave for lunch now. Tomorrow, after lunch." She stands and strides off into the room, and you're left staring after her.

+++

You turn your fork around and around in your fingers, poking at your food. You're not really hungry, and by the looks of it, neither is Yraena, who's next to you. She's looking blankly at the opposite wall, her eyes vacant.

"I'm not hungry," you say, and you're just going to push your chair back and leave when Dís walks in, slamming the door behind her. She waves a hand at you, gesturing for you to sit, which you do reluctantly.

"This is important," she says. "You'll want to hear this." She brushes a strand of hair out of her eyes, which look tired and puffy. You frown, wanting to ask her if she's all right. Before you can open your mouth, she speaks again.

"Tomorrow afternoon after lunch you won't have any classes, nor will the training room be available. I want you all to stay in your respective rooms and not come out until dinner, all right? We have some distinguished guests coming over and we want the corridors to be clear."

"Who's coming?" asks Frerin, frowning next to Dís where he's sitting at the table. "Dain?"

"Among others," says Dís evasively. "But under no circumstances will you come outside, okay?"

You all murmur your agreement and Dís rubs at her face tiredly. "Good." Then she lifts her face hopefully. "Do I smell soup?"

"Dís, you look like you've gone through hell since the last time I saw you," says Thorin, standing and herding his sister towards a chair. "Sit down and rest, I'll get you some food."

She blinks. "Oh, no, I have to go—"

"No, you don't. You have to sit down for a while and eat something, or else you'll collapse."

"But the boys—"

"I can take care of the boys," you say, and at the same time Thorin says, "I'll take care of the boys." You both look at each other, then look away quickly.

A wry look of amusement flashes over her face. "You can both go," she says. "You'll need all the help you can get with those two little devils." She sighs. "Ask Vili as well, if he's not too busy. He already skipped three meetings in the past week to take care of them. Sometimes I wonder how I ever thought I could manage two children." She rubs at her temples with the tips of her fingers. 

Frerin and Yraena stand, murmuring to each other while getting Dís a plate. You stand as well, patting Dís' shoulder and telling her her boys are in safe hands. She smiles. 

"Thank you, Y/N," she says. "I think you'll want to hurry, before they can wreak havoc in my room."

You bite your lip unconsciously. "I don't know where..."

"I do," says Thorin's voice at your shoulder. "Come on, she's right, we have to get there fast. You never know with Fíli and Kíli."

With a last pat on the shoulder for the princess and a wave to Yraena and Frerin, you and Thorin hurry outside. 

"She's overworking herself," he mutters as you turn a corner. "She's doing too much."

"She is. We'll have to step in more often to take some weight off her."

"Problem is, she won't let us. She doesn't like it when we do her work for her. She throws all kinds of fits."

You hide a smile. "Fits?"

"I think a better word is 'tantrums'."

You laugh. "We'll just have to throw a few tantrums of our own to win those arguments."

"I wouldn't bet on our victory," he says. "Dís is the queen of tantrums. She even outshines Fíli and Kíli."

"Ouch," you mutter. "That bad, huh?"

"Worse. You have no idea." He pushes open a door, and you both step inside. "Are they in here?" you whisper.

There's a thump, and then something small crashes into you. "Hi, aunt Y/N!" yells Kíli's voice. You stoop and pick him up, bouncing his little body in your arms. "Hey, Kíli. And please do not call me 'aunt', it makes me feel ancient." He giggles.

"Where's your brother?" you ask, brushing his brown hair off his forehead. "Where's Fíli?"

He puts his head on your shoulder. "He's sleeping."

You and Thorin catch each other's eye. You nod towards the bed, where a small figure with a crown of gold hair is lying curled up on the blankets. He walks forward and picks up his nephew, one hand held protectively behind his head and the other across his back, his head on his shoulder. He looks tiny held in Thorin's thick arms. 

"Why didn't you go to bed?" you ask Kíli, gently bouncing him as you follow Thorin into a smaller room off the first one. He shrugs. "I wasn't sleepy, so I was awake. Fíli fell asleep on me."

You smile, ruffling his hair. "It's a good thing he didn't wake up. He was lucky you were there to watch over him, right?"

His smile is angelic. "Yeah!"

You drop a kiss onto his cheek. "Come on, let's get you to bed as well."

Thorin puts Fíli onto a small bed in the other room, and you gently lay Kíli next to him, tucking the blankets up to his chin. He blinks his wide eyes at you. "Will you stay?"

You sit on the bed next to him, gently stroking his hair back. "Of course."

His eyes slip closed. "Can you sing?"

You're caught off guard. "Sing? Okay." You look fearfully at Thorin, who's sitting on the other side of the bed, next to Fíli. He nods at you.

You start to sing softly, a lullaby you remember your own mother singing to you when you were as little as Kíli. The tune is hushed, quiet, gentle and soothing, the notes falling over and under each other to create a warm sound. It's been a long time since you've sang, but you're glad it's for Kíli, and you're glad it's now. It's not long before he falls asleep, his chest rising and falling shallowly and his breaths measured and even. You finish off the small song and brush his hair back with your fingers, adjusting the blankets. 

Everything is quiet for a few minutes. Then:

"I didn't know you sang," murmurs Thorin, so softly you have to strain to hear it. "You were—it was beautiful."

You flush, still gently stroking Kíli's cheek. "Thank you. I don't normally sing, but... sometimes I make an exception. They're too cute." You smile a little. 

He says nothing, just looks down at his sleeping nephews, his fingers rolling one of Fíli's golden braids between them. The resemblance between all three of them is evident—Fíli has his eyes, and his cheekbones. Kíli has his jaw and his brows. 

The silence is getting thicker, and you find yourself blurting, "I'm sorry, for last night. It was reckless of me to..." You swallow. "You know. It was uncalled for."

He doesn't look up. "And again, you're apologizing for something you didn't do. Or rather, you're apologizing for something you didn't do wrong."

"But I was... I didn't—"

He looks up at you, a brow raised. "You were what?"

"Stupid? Not thinking? Carried away? I don't know."

"Not thinking?"

You blush. _Thinking about you._ "I wasn't thinking."

"No? It looked to me as if you were thinking a little too much."

You sigh. "I shouldn't have... It wasn't... I'm so bad at this." You drop your face into your hands. "I have no idea what to say, and there's so much going on and we're _engaged_ and there's Lady Hisa and her ridiculous questions about our nonexistent sex life and I keep losing control around you and it's driving me crazy and I'm really confused." You sigh into your hands, not trusting yourself to look up and meet his eyes. 

Silence ensues, and your face is still mashed into your hands, and your teeth gnaws on your lip, relishing in the faint sting. 

"Lady Hisa's questions about what?" he asks finally. 

"Nothing, she just keeps asking me about what we do in bed together." You finally lift your face, laughing despite the fact that your face is bright red. "It's ridiculous."

He's smiling a little. "I hope you made up something good."

"Ha ha." You roll your eyes. "No way am I saying anything."

He looks down at Fíli's sleeping form. "But you shouldn't be sorry. Not for..."

"Losing my self-control?" Your voice is just above a whisper. You shake your head. "I shouldn't have touched you."

He doesn't move, just looking down. You swallow. "It's better if we just forget about it, act—"

"Act like it never happened? You think you can manage that? You think _I_ can manage that? Y/N, you have to marry me."

You can see what he doesn't say, what he means to say. _And there has to be something between us if that marriage has to work._ "I know," you whisper. "But I can't, I can't do that, I can't let us..." You shake your head, frustrated. 

"Do you not want this to work?"

The directness, the bluntness, is what hits you the hardest. You feel like you've been kicked in the stomach. And the worst thing is, you don't know the answer. You want... him, but you don't want to want him. 

"I..." You stare down at the brightly patterned quilt that's covering the sleeping brothers. "I don't know."

"Then perhaps you should have said that to begin with." You look up, and his eyes have gone flat and hard. Your heart does a slow, purposeless somersault in your chest as he stands up, moving back. 

"Thorin, wait. You don't understand—"

"Then explain." He stalks around the bed and sits right next to you, so close you can feel the heat of his body through his clothes. "Tell me why you're so afraid."

"I'm not afraid—"

"Y/N." His tone brooks no room for argument. "What is it?"

You look down, swallowing. "I've never been with someone... not like that. I've never even really wanted anyone like that. And when the king said I had to marry you, I hated it. I'd never loved, so how could he expect me to just give myself away to someone I may not have wanted at all?" You finger the fringes of the quilt. "So I was so prepared to hate you. I wanted to hate you. Sometimes I still do. But... but for the past few weeks..." The words are sticking in your throat. It's impossible to say them. Your eyes are welling, and you fight to keep your voice firm. "I've been... like I said, losing what little control I have, I can't bring myself to think of you that way. I don't want to... but I do."

You stand up and turn away, not wanting him to see what's clearly in your eyes. "I can't do this, I can't..." To your eternal self-hatred and utter humiliation, you feel a tear slip down your face, trailing a burning path down your cheek. You sniff slightly, pressing your lips together as you lift a hand to wipe it away. 

A light hand catches your wrist, stopping your hand. An even lighter hand gently wipes the tear off your face, so tenderly that you feel the lump in your throat grow. Another tear falls, then another. He wipes them all away, and when they finally stop he doesn't say anything, just gently pulls you into his arms and holds you.

Your head falls onto his shoulder as your arms grip his, and then you're lost at sea, your body detached and unmoored. He's warm and solid, and you feel like you could stay in his arms forever and be content. Something in your chest cracks, so acutely and evidently that you're astonished he doesn't hear it. You don't know how long you stay like that, wrapped in each other, but it feels like both an eternity and a few seconds later when he pulls away, just far enough to see your face. You blush and look down when his eyes find yours.

"I could never hate you," you mutter. "I tried, but..."

"Me too," he murmurs. Then he whispers your name. Your eyes dart up to meet his. There's a question in them, and you want to answer it. This time it's you who leans in, your eyes falling shut and your arms tightening around him as you tilt your head, and your lips are millimeters apart—

"Uncle Thorin?" A sleepy voice rings out from next to you, and you leap backwards, your arms falling away from Thorin. His own arms slip from around your waist, and you press yourself to the wall, breathing hard. 

"Fíli? I'm here." He moves over to him, flashing you a quick, unreadable look as he does. You quickly move over to Fíli, whose eyes are open. He holds out a hand and you take it, patting his cheek as Thorin murmurs to him in Khuzdul. 

"Where's Amad?" he asks sleepily, and you untangle your fingers from his little ones. "I'll get her, okay?"

Thorin nods at you gratefully, and you hurry out of the room. Halfway down the corridor you stop, leaning against the wall. You'd been _this_ close to kissing him. Half of you is disappointed, and the other half is triumphant. He wanted it. He didn't back away. If only Fíli had woken up half a minute later... You shake your head, but you can't help the little grin that pulls at your lips. You pump your fist, giggling like a crazy person as you race down the corridor to find the princess.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"I fell in love the way you fall asleep: slowly, and then all at once."_
> 
> _–John Green_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, this took so long. I'm so sorry, but you know—big fat Indian weddings take days, and I had to fly halfway across the world for it. So I'm giving myself credit here.  
> Also I hope you like this chapter. ;)

"Tell me how you arrived," says Faryn, frowning at you from behind his glasses. "Every last detail."

You sigh. "Again?"

"Again."

"I heard something outside, so I locked the house up and went outside to check it out. There was nothing there, so I was heading back. But then I tripped over... something. I don't know what is was, I didn't see anything, and I'd come out that way, so it hadn't been there before. And then the ground sort of... swallowed me up and I landed here. Right in front of the gates. It was around the same time here as it was there."

He frowns. "You didn't see what was there in the path?"

"No, and I dropped my phone, my flashlight and my keys." Which means if someone came around your place... they'd be able to pick up your phone, and they'd be able to get your keys and get into your house. You sigh, far beyond caring about that now. You've got way more important things to think about than robbers. 

"Hmm." He sighs. "It's so odd. What connection to this world could you possibly have? I know what the others will say; they will say that you are a gift from Mahal, a lost star returned to us from the heavens."

You detect a faint note of skepticism in his tone and frown. "But that's not what you believe?"

He smiles grimly. "I'm afraid not. I'm afraid the concept of believing is beyond me."

Your brows rise. "You're an atheist?"

"As in, one who does not believe in the existence of a divine creator? Yes, then I suppose I am."

You blink. "Oh. It's just—I never would have thought it."

"I am a historian, Y/N. I deal with solid fact and evidence and history. Not legends or myths or stories. And this is not the work of a god. What brought you here is a small overlap between our worlds. A door, so to speak. You fell through it—"

"Wait. A multidimensional door? In—in my _backyard_? I'm sorry, but I think I would have known that it was there if I'd lived in that house for ten years."

"Doors like this are not always open." He sits back. "They only open occasionally. At specific times, to specific people. Something wanted to bring you here. Something we do not have the power to control."

"What?" Your voice is hardly even a whisper.

"I have no idea." He shuts his book with a snap. "Fate? Chance? Destiny? Luck? All are plausible, one is the answer. I would put my money on fate. It's something we cannot put a leash on. Something elusive and focused. Why were you brought here? Why were _you_ brought here? Why were you brought _here_? Many variations of the same question. Time, place, person." He rubs at his eyes. 

"But... you mean there's a reason I landed in front of these gates and not some other realm's?" You bite the inside of your lip. "It wasn't just random? An accident?"

"You'll find," he sighs, standing up and heading into the shelves, "that when dealing with these things, Y/N, the words 'random' and 'accident' cease to exist. Yes, there is a reason you landed here. No, we may never know why. Maybe, you are doing what you came to do. I will do my best to answer these questions in due time."

You sigh. "Great."

"Mmm." His voice floats out from the shadows. "Sit tight, princess. We have a long search ahead of us."

+++

"...and it'll be just lovely!" Lyvya's voice comes in and out of focus, some things registering and some things not. You're lying flat on your back on the bed while she pokes around in your closet, occasionally drawing out a dress and brushing it, then putting it back.

"Sure," you yawn. "Dancing, irritating gentry, jealous noblewomen... what more could I ask for?"

Lyvya puts her hands on her hips. "The only things you need to worry for are the things you want to worry for."

You lift yourself up on one elbow, frowning. "What does that even mean?"

"It means that unless you stop worrying, it won't ever get better, will it?" She extracts a shimmering coral pink dress from the closet, woven with sea-green gems on the hem and cuffs. After a brief scrutiny, she stuffs it back in. "Don't get too ahead of it all, miss. It'll only make it worse."

You flop back down, worrying at your lip between your teeth. "And it's only in about a month," goes on Lyvya, still rummaging. "I do wonder how it'll all hold up, what with the wedding and all of those other things in the middle."

"I don't even want to think about it." You stand up, moving over to stand next to her. "I'm way too young to get married. I've never even had a boyfriend, much less a fiancé. I'm so bad at this, Thorin is probably laughing at me behind my back."

"Now, miss, don't say that!" Lyvya says, affronted. "Now from what I've seen—and I've seen quite a lot—you're doing fine, and the prince is most definitely not laughing at you. In fact, it's quite the opposite."

"Oh?" You raise an eyebrow. "What? Tell me."

She blushes. It's very noticeable against her pale skin. "It's not my place."

"Oh, come on, Lyvya! You can tell me, I'm a closed book." You smile artlessly at her, giving her the big eyes treatment, but she doesn't fall for it. 

"No, it isn't my place," she says stubbornly, shaking her head. "But it's like I said, miss, you aren't doing anything wrong. You're doing fine. Now come here, there's a luncheon now and you haven't any dresses to wear."

"None?" You eye the bursting wardrobe skeptically. "Really?"

"Shush. Now, this one or this one?" She holds up two dresses. One is deep purple chased with black, the other is mint green sequined with silver. They're both gorgeous. 

"Both. I don't know, I'm not sure. They're both so pretty."

"I think this one is more suited to the occasion," she says, holding up the green one and stuffing the other one back into the cupboard. You shrug. "Whatever you say, Lyvya. Whatever you say."

As she dresses you, you swivel around to raise an eyebrow at her. "So are you going to tell me?"

A stubborn silence ensues. She gives a sharp tug at the laces of your corset and you gasp. "Easy on the ribs, girl! My lungs could have collapsed or something."

"Your lungs would collapse only if I pulled for another half an hour," Lyvya says waspishly. "Quiet down now, miss, or it'll only get worse."

After she spins you into the regal princess you're supposed to be, she steps back. "There. You look lovely."

"Mmh." You pull at the sleeve of the dress. "I suppose."

She sends you a small smile, and a strange look comes over her face. You frown at her. "What?"

"Nothing, miss, it's just... It's been nearly two months since you've become a princess, and I feel as if the time has flown, is all."

"That it has." You smile at her. "It doesn't feel like two months, more like two days. Or two years. I can't decide which."

She laughs. "Well, miss, you're making it out just fine."

"Let's hope I hold up till the end."

"I'm sure you will, miss." She pats your cheek. "Come on, now, let's get you downstairs, I'm sure they're all waiting for you."

+++

"You begin training today," is Dís' greeting to you at breakfast the next morning.

Your eyes light up. "Really? When?"

Her eyes crinkle as she grins. "Right after breakfast."

You beam at her. "Okay, great."

She sighs. "You've been waiting quite a while, haven't you?"

"Ages," you laugh. "Will Yraena be there as well?"

"Yes," says Dís. "All four of you, I think. Now eat, dear, or you won't have strength enough. Frerin insists on a rigorous training, and he's going to be overseeing you all."

"Frerin?" You blink. 

"Don't let his schoolboy demeanor cloud his inner demons," says Dís with a wink. She brushes a loose strand of hair back from your forehead, and you wonder if this is what it's like to have an older sister, someone who looks after you and takes care of you and loves you and is still your best friend. 

"Come eat," you say, patting the chair next to you. "You look tired."

"Oh, no, I'm fine. I—"

"I insist," you say, patting more vigorously. "You'll fall over if you don't eat. And haven't you heard? Breakfast is the most important meal of the day."

She smiles and slides into the seat. "All right, you win. I swear you all are the same. I don't need four more parents," she laughs.

"You're too busy being one yourself," you shrug. "If you always take care of everyone, who takes care of you?"

She looks over at you with an odd expression. Before she can say anything, however, the doors open, admitting Frerin and Yraena, who are both laughing. You sneak a glance at Dís, and she's smiling a little, looking at them wistfully. You hide your own smile and look at your plate. It looks as if someone is finally warming up to each other. 

You're so lost in thought that you don't even notice it when someone sits in the seat on your other side. You're staring down at the tablecloth, unmoving. Which is why you jump a mile in the air when someone touches your shoulder.

"God, Thorin, you nearly gave me a heart attack!" You sigh.

"I've been sitting here for the past ten minutes," he says, raising an eyebrow.

"I was just... thinking."

"About what?" He leans forward ever so slightly, and you shiver. 

"Nothing, just... nothing." You look down, trying not to blush. Oh god, the last time you'd seen him... You'd nearly...

"I start training today," you blurt.

He blinks. "Oh. When?"

You swallow. "After breakfast."

There's silence between the two of you for a long while. You find your mind straying back to the last conversation you'd had with him, and allowing your guard to slip and how scared you'd been. But he hadn't said anything, hadn't spoken. Your heart aches. You feel like you've been stumbling around looking for something your whole life, and in that one moment you had found it. 

When breakfast is finally over, the four of you troop over to the training room. It's just as gorgeous as you remember, the weapons as sharp and deadly, the windows as clear and bright. 

You're directed to a changing room, where Yraena points you to a stall. You change into the loose, white training clothes and step outside, feeling lighter than ever without a dress and a corset to weigh you down. You kick the offending garment away for good measure. 

Just like Dís had said, Frerin is no nonsense. He doesn't bother with introduction, and makes all of you run fifty laps around the training room the moment you finish changing. 

"No breaks," he announces. "And no water, you'll cramp. We don't want anyone having stitches today."

You run for about an hour and a half, then he stops you and orders you to do stretches. Your muscles are screaming, but it's a good kind of screaming. After you stretch, your limbs feel like noodles, but you stand straight. Frerin, who's sweating as much as you are, nods at you. 

"If I'm not wrong, you use a saber. Do I remember right?"

You nod.

He smiles just a little, his eyes flicking to his brother. "Here." He tosses you a saber, which you catch delightedly. It's perfectly balanced. And so light. He brandishes a saber himself and beckons you forward.

"Shh," he says. "I'm supposed to start with basics here, but I'll make an exception."

You grin at him. "That's fine with me."

You both position yourselves across from each other, and your whole world narrows down to just you and the saber in your hand and the saber in Frerin's. 

He lunges without warning.

You sidestep, holding the blade aloft and twirl neatly, slashing down. He spins away, but the tip of the sword tears a clean cut through his white shirt. You watch his elbow as he brings the blade down, and you anticipate his feint. Your blades clang together, locked at the hilt as you both fight for the upper hand. You sweep down, then slash again, but this time he's ready. His blade meets yours, and he slides it up to your hilt, locking and beginning to twist. 

You leap backwards and parry, then slash again. His blade comes out of nowhere and slashes through your shirt at your shoulder, not even grazing your skin. You use his own move against him, locking your hilts together and twisting as hard as you can.

His eyes widen in surprise, and then his fingers free the handle, his saber dropping to the ground with a clatter. 

You step back, breathing hard. "Touché," he says, saluting to you with two fingers at his brow. He's panting, sweat dripping into his eyes. 

Behind him, Yraena is clapping, grinning at you. She sends you a small wink and you smile back. Beside her, Thorin's lips are pulled into a small smile. You look at him and raise a brow. He nods at you. You blush and look away. Every time you look at him it ends in you blushing and looking away. 

You hear Frerin whistle. "Y/N, that was amazing. Forget the basics, we're going straight to advanced. You knocked me on my arse good just now."

You turn to him and laugh. "You were amazing too."

"Ah, you're just being nice."

You shake your head and pat his shoulder. Yraena walks over to you, grinning and shaking her head. "Y/N, I didn't know you had it in you." 

You laugh. "Long hours of practice at home."

"Y/N... I wanted to tell you something. It's important." She looks almost nervous. You frown at her as Frerin and Thorin both head over to the racks of swords, heads bent together.

"Yeah?"

"Could... could you be a girl for a moment?"

"What? Yraena, just tell me."

She bounces on the balls of her feet. "Well... Could you?"

You sway your hips and flip your hair over your shoulder. "Okay, sweetie, I'm a girl now. Hit me with it, hon."

She rolls her eyes and slaps my hands. "Frerin kissed me."

Your mouth drops open. "What? Where? When? Why? How? Tell me everything right now!"

She grins at you. "You _can_ be a girl!"

"Oh my god. Tell me now!"

"Well... We were just walking around, and he just... kissed me."

"Wow," I say with a laugh. "And there I was, worried that you were going too slowly."

"You were?"

"Well... a little. It looked like you were hardly talking before."

"We weren't." She sighs. "But for the past few weeks, it's been... different."

You smile at her. "Have you and Thorin..." She raises her eyebrows at you.

Your face burns. "No."

"Ah." She bumps your shoulder. "You've been spending a lot more time with him lately..."

"But nothing happened," you say, waving a hand. "If anything did, I..." You blush. 

She laughs. "I'm just glad this is working out," she says with a sigh. "I... if I didn't have... I don't know if I could have done it. Married him, that is."

"I know," you say, patting her arm. "I get it."

She sighs. "I think I'm going to get some water," she says, and pats your back before heading to the door. Across the room, Frerin disengages from Thorin and jogs after her. You have to laugh as they leave the room together, totally oblivious to both of you.

"Someone's in love," you say, shaking your head and running a finger along the length of your saber. You head over to Thorin, who's shaking his head too. "It's ridiculous. His priorities have withered and he's just daydreaming all day. No wonder he lost today. He's usually good with a saber."

You cock a brow. "Are you insinuating that I won because he was distracted?"

He blinks at you, enigmatic, but there's a spark in his eyes. "Maybe."

"Okay, let's test it." You snatch a saber from the rack and toss it to him, aiming for his face. He catches it with ease, grinning now. 

You hardly wait for him to unsheath it before you leap at him, slashing in a wide arc. He spins neatly out if the way and parries, and for a few minutes you go back and forth, the blades whistling through the air as you slash, dodge and parry. You manage to slip past his guard and hit the flat of his blade with yours, and while he's distracted you drop and sweep your leg out, hooking a foot behind his ankle and tripping him. 

But instead of falling he dodges your foot, and his blade crashes into yours, sending you sprawling. Intent on not losing, you grab his collar and drag him down with you, managing to snatch his blade as you both tumble to the ground. You sling a leg over his hip and sit up, aiming both blades at his throat. His hair is sticking to his neck, and he's panting. His white shirt is drenched in sweat, and it's going transparent in places. This time you have nowhere else to look, and your eyes roam against your will. You force them back to his face.

"Dead," you announce. With a grin, you stand up, then hold a hand out for him to take. His fingers grip yours, and then he yanks you down over him, rolling you under him so that your back hits the floor. You yelp as he grabs the blades, then kneels over you, both blades poised at your neck. 

"Dead," he says with a grin. His hair tickles your collarbone and you fight a shiver. You slap his arm, a little too hard to be playful. "That's not fair! I'd won!"

"You should never let your guard down till the fight is really over," he says, and he stands. You pull yourself to your feet, scowling. You snatch both the blades from him with a huff. 

"Cheater," you say. "I won fair and square."

His smile is barely a tilt of his lips. "If it makes you feel better." His hand brushes a sweaty strand of hair from his forehead and you're seized by the sudden and overpowering urge to touch his hair. You battle it and sniff. "It does."

There's silence for a few moments, and you bite your lip, the blades slipping in your sweaty hands. It's quiet, and the only sound is your breaths and your heartbeat in your ears. You want to say something, but you don't know what. You feel his presence in front of you, heat and warmth and that scent that hits you like a punch to the gut. It fills your head, your body, makes it hard to think. You feel drunk on his presence. 

"There's another dinner tonight," you say, glancing at him. "Please tell me you and Frerin are going to be there and you're not going to let us fend for ourselves all alone." He's looking at you, and you raise your brows, prompting him to reply. 

Which is why you're totally unprepared for it when Thorin grabs your face in his hands and kisses you. 

The world stops spinning.

For a second you freeze. Your brain goes blank, a strange buzzing the only thing you can comprehend. Then, all in the rush of one fleeting second, something in your mind seems to feel his lips on your own, because it screams, _You idiot, Thorin is kissing you! Do something!_

The swords drop from your numb hands, thumping onto the ground with an audible thunk. You gasp and push yourself up on tiptoe, slanting your mouth across his. His lips move against yours frantically, desperately, hungrily. He parts your lips, stroking inside your mouth with his skilled tongue, weaving it in your mouth and coaxing yours into a languorous dance that sets all your nerve endings on fire. 

Your hands steal up, clenching into his luxuriant mane. All those weeks dreaming about how soft it'd be against your fingers, how the strands would slip and slide through your skin, and now you can finally let your hands go where your mind went earlier. It feels like rough silk against your palms, and it's softer than you ever could've imagined it to be. You grip a fistful and tug slightly, and his lips slide against yours as he groans softly.

The sound sends heat in a line of fire to your core, and liquid heat pools in the pit of your stomach.

His hands don't move, staying on either side of your face. His thumbs draw slow, caressing circles over your cheeks, his lips molding to yours. He kisses you thoroughly, his teeth pulling hard at your lower lip, biting it. A small sound, half a squeak and half a moan, slips out of your mouth.

You both pull away at the same time, breathless. His cheeks are flushed and so are his lips, and his eyes are glittering, darkened to cobalt. You see him swallow.

"I'll take that as a yes," you say breathlessly.

"Sorry," he murmurs. "That was... unplanned."

You bite your slightly swollen lip. "It was a nice surprise." Your voice is breathy and rushed. "Every time we tried we got interrupted." He laughs, and on an impulse, you lean forward and give him another small peck on the lips, missing the taste of him already. You've been wanting to kiss him for a long time.

His head snaps up, and then his hands cup the back of your neck, fusing your lips together. Suddenly he has you gasping for air in between deep kisses, his insistent, demanding mouth moving hotly against yours. He rips his lips away from yours and nips a fervent path down your jaw, leaving you gasping for breath. He pushes you backwards until your back hits the training room wall, and then he's bearing down on you, all his muscled weight pinning you against it.

He's mouthing your pulse, swallowing your racing heartbeat as you squirm against him. One of his hands settles onto your hip, the other winding itself into your hair, tilting your head and allowing his teeth better access to your throat. He bites down and you cry out, arching your back. Pleasure sluices through you, an ache building between your legs. 

His lips run skillfully over your collarbone, making a moan fight its way out of your mouth. His hand tightens on your hip, and he presses you further into the wall. His tongue darts out, and then he actually _licks_ the sweat from the hollows of your throat, and your responding groan is so loud you're sure the whole Mountain hears you. He lays a delicate, burning path of kisses along your neck and you moan again. What on earth is he doing to you?

A muscled thigh nudges your legs open, pinning you to the wall. You press yourself to him, desperate for relief, needing to rid yourself of that ache in your core. He gasps, then his hand slides to your thigh, cupping it and lifting you as if you weigh nothing, pushing you up against the wall.

Automatically, your legs scissor around his waist, molding you to him. You groan, feeling him against you suddenly, hard and thick. Your hips buck into his against your will, and your breath hitches as sensation radiates from the apex of your thighs. His lips crash onto yours again, and then his tongue is running along the seam of your lips, seeking entry. You let him in, opening yourself up to his thorough plundering. Your hips move into his again and he makes a sound into your mouth that's halfway between a purr and a groan, his hand tightening on your thigh. 

"Well, well... What do we have here?"

Thorin rips himself away from you, so abruptly that you slide down the wall, landing clumsily on your feet. You spin around to see Frerin, grinning a shit-eating grin, his blond hair artfully tousled and wayward as usual. He's leaning against the door, arms folded. 

You're blushing so hard you're sure your whole face is bright red. Both of you are gasping, your lips swollen; Thorin's tunic is more than a little rumpled from your grip; your hair is mussed beyond repair, and there's a love bite on your neck, clear as day.

It wouldn't take a genius to figure out what you were doing. 

Frerin saunters into the room, still grinning. "Interesting," he says, cocking a golden eyebrow. He tilts his head to the side, observing you with his dark gaze. You flush, very deliberately not looking at Thorin. 

" _Interesting_?" Thorin echoes, sounding as if he's been hit on the head and is still recovering. "By Durin, Frerin—"

"Finally let go of your petty disagreements and saw what was right in front of you?" Frerin interrupts, smiling serenely. "Oh, Mahal, wait till I tell Dís. She's had money on you two for weeks now."

You blink, still disoriented from the feeling of Thorin's lips sliding across yours and his hands on your skin and the feeling of him between your legs. You shiver, biting your lip, then stopping quickly—it's sore and raw from where it's been bitten already, and you don't know who bit it—you or Thorin. The thought makes you blush again. 

"Dís?" you ask, blinking again. "Money? What are you—"

"Oh, not just Dís," Frerin says dismissively, waving a hand. "All of us. Even father, though he would never admit it," he adds as an afterthought. "We'd all been waiting for you to—you know."

"To what?" mutters Thorin. As Frerin opens his mouth, he cuts across him. "No, don't answer that," he says sharply. Frerin smirks.

"You do realize that you're in a _public_ place?" he asks innocently, crossing his legs as he leans against the wall. "You can't make out in public places. It goes against the social norms of this kingdom."

Thorin snorts. "What social norms? You hypocrite, I caught you in the forge yesterday with Yraena draped all over you on the anvil—"

Frerin doesn't bat an eyelash. "We're engaged, you know."

Thorin rolls his eyes. "In case you hadn't noticed, so are we."

"Oh?" Frerin raises an eyebrow. "I had noticed, by the by. But a few weeks ago I wouldn't have believed it if I didn't already know."

"And what is that supposed to mean?"

"Oh, I don't know." Frerin examines his chipped fingernails. "Why don't you ask Y/N? She's been on the receiving end of your mouth, after all. Both ways," he adds with a snicker. Then he sighs, clapping his hands together. "Well, anyhow," he says, "good show, you two. Next time, though, take it to a bedroom, eh?" With a roguish wink at a blushing you and another smug smile at a stunned Thorin, he ambles out of the room, humming to himself with his hands in his pockets.

"What did he—"

You hold up a hand. "Save it," you sigh. "He meant that we weren't very nice to each other in the beginning, is all. Nothing serious. You, Thorin son of Thrain, need to chill."

"Do I?" His hand laces with yours and he tugs you back against his chest. You sigh and loop your other arm around his waist. "Big time. If you'd stop and think for a moment, you could save yourself a lot of... unnecessary... I don't know. Stuff." 

"There's my eloquent bride-to-be."

"Oh, shut up." You glare up at him and he smiles down at you, his expression soft and teasing. He leans down and just brushes his lips against yours, so softly it can't even be called a real kiss. Your breath fans his lips. "Thorin," you whisper against his mouth. "Kiss me."

"Y/N...," he whispers. You shiver. Nobody has ever said your name like that before, like a prayer and a lifeline, like something ethereal and divine and... and loved. Your lashes flutter as he bends his head, just enough to brush your lips with his. You arch into the soft caress, your lips parting in invitation. 

His teeth close around the swell of your bottom lip and you whimper. He tugs slightly, and a dart of sensation shoots right between your legs. Your knees buckle, a moan escaping your lips.

He holds you up, an arm tight around your waist, as he peppers soft, light kisses along your jaw, occasionally brushing your mouth before moving to your cheek. His beard scratches lightly along your jaw, and you have to bite your tongue to keep from moaning aloud. Your nails dig into his arms and you sigh, melting more and more with each kiss. He draws away finally, eyes tender.

"That was your first kiss?" he murmurs, nudging your chin with his. You blush. 

"Yes," you whisper back. "Well, technically second, but..." You duck your head, biting your lip. He lifts your chin with a finger, raising his eyebrows. He's smiling. You don't think you've ever seen that sort of smile on anyone's face in your whole life. Especially not directed at you. 

"Did it live up to the expectation?" 

You blush again. "It was much better."

"Then allow me to raise the bar," he says, and swoops in to claim your mouth with his.

+++

The dress is heavy, dripping with lace and silk. You're sweating already, and you fan your face to prevent the carefully applied makeup from smearing. The party hasn't even started and you want to go already. How will you last five, six more hours?

Next to you, out of the corner of your eye you see Thorin's fingers drumming an idle tattoo on his leg, his eyes unfocused. He's as bored as you are, but he's better at hiding it.

You see a flash of silver hair, and then Thorin's light fingers press to your back. "Look occupied, quickly. Pretend you're talking to me."

You roll your eyes. "I'm not afraid of her." Acid green eyes find yours and you give Saelle a sweet, satisfied smile. _He's mine._ She flounces away in a swirl of skirts.

"See? That wasn't so hard." You smile patronizingly at him and he rolls his eyes back at you. Involuntarily, you lean into his touch, and his fingers spread wider over your back, which arches under his touch and the heat of his skin. 

"Well, I'm occupied now," you breathe, and he huffs out a laugh. "I have unleashed a monster," he mutters, and you murmur something, sighing as your eyes flick over the hall.

"I'm so bored," you say dully. 

"Don't worry, I'll entertain you," he assures you. You snort. "Oh, yeah? How?"

"I could drag you into the kitchens on the pretense of getting something and entertain you there," he murmurs in your ear, his breath tickling your hair. You push him away, laughing. "We are at a very important dinner party. You are not going to drag me into the kitchens to make out."

"No?"

"No."

"Any better ideas?"

"Not at the moment, no."

There's silence. Thorin's fingertips trace lazy patterns on your back through the fabric of your dress, making little pricks of sensation travel down your spine. You realize your fingers are gripping your skirt and loosen your hold on it, trying to stay still. 

An hour later you can't stand it anymore. "That's it," you say. "This is too boring. I'd even take the kitchens right now."

He laughs, lacing your fingers together and pressing a kiss to your hand. "Is it that bad?"

"Yes," you groan. "What did they expect us to do? Stand here like statues?"

"...Yes?"

"Ugh." You plunk your head down into your hand. "Can we leave?" You sound like a petulant child. You don't care. 

"No, we can't leave. Dís would have my head." He looks over the heads of the crowd, nodding at Dís, who's talking to someone you don't know. 

"Just stay still," he says. "It's not so hard."

"Okay, fine." Then you glance up at him. "What do I get if I stay still for another hour?"

"What do you want if you can stay still for another hour?"

"One kiss for every quarter of an hour." You smile artlessly up at him. 

He raises a brow. "You drive a hard bargain."

"Deal?"

His lips twitch into a smile. "Deal."

You hide your own smile as you look in front again, determined to stay still. Half an hour later you're tapping your feet, your fingers smoothing up your skirt and your mind wandering. An hour later you're whistling and tapping your fingers along with your feet. 

"Y/N! Thorin!" Dís draws up to you, smiling. "One of you, would you call Frerin? He left to get something for me but I found it here."

"I'll go," you say at the same time. She laughs. "Fine, both of you go." She winks at you before melting back into the crowd.

"Finally," you crow once both of you burst out of the ballroom. "I have a purpose in life besides staring at the wall!"

He sighs. "It really was unnecessary, calling us. What did we do?"

"Nothing." You march down the corridor, and as you turn the corner Thorin grabs your arm, another arm sliding around your waist as he presses you up against the cold stone wall. You gasp, your hands gripping his shoulders.

"I owe you five kisses, my lady," he murmurs, and you laugh. "Wait, not now, you'll ruin my lipstick—"

His lips stop yours and you give up, your fingers sliding up his back and into his hair. You whisper softly as you kiss, his breath warm against yours. You count five kisses, then seven, then eleven, then you lose count entirely. His tongue trails along your jaw and you throw your head back with a gasp, baring your neck. He presses a line of bruising kisses down the column of your throat, and you say a mangled, breathless version of his name and then he's kissing you again—

You hear the ballroom door open, and you break apart, pushing Thorin off you quickly and straightening your dress. "Come on," he hisses, then he pulls you down the corridor by your hand, and just as you round the next corner you see a flash of silver hair behind you. 

"Damn," you whisper as he tugs you along. "She nearly caught us."

"I don't think it matters," he says, looking indifferent. He looks slightly windswept, and his lips are a bit swollen, but otherwise he does not look like he's been succumbing to passion. You, on the other hand, probably do.

"I knew it," you say. "You ruined my lipstick, didn't you?"

He gives you a perfunctory once-over. "Not really."

"Don't lie."

"Okay, it's ruined," he admits with a laugh. "So is your hair." 

"Your fault," you say. "Totally your fault."

"I will gladly take the blame," he mutters, still pulling you along the hall. "Now come on, before they realize we've been gone so long."

This time, you forget to look back, and miss the telltale sign of silver hair in the corridor behind you, steadily moving with you, always just a few steps behind.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Love is for fools wise enough to take a chance."_
> 
> _–Anonymous_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay, it's early! Hope you all like this one. :)  
> Thanks to everyone who dropped reviews and kudos, means a lot. Love you guys! <3

_"You fell here for a reason," whispers a voice. It sounds oddly familiar, and for some reason when you hear it you feel safer, more secure. "Something brought you here, the most powerful force, the strongest bond. Something you cannot control, for it is your destiny. Written in the stars. Your heart, not your soul, is what pulled you to this place. Pulled you to me."_

_A gust of wind tears around you, lifting your hair and pushing you backwards. Trees rise out of the ground, and when you look back the earth drops away in a sheer cliff, and there is only blue sky beyond. You look in front again, but there's nobody, nobody there with you but the voice. You know that voice..._

_"Have you given me your heart?" breathes the voice, and a soft curl of wind caresses your cheek. You turn into it involuntarily, your pulse quickening, as the wind dances around you. You're pushed backwards again, and this time you look down, at what lies below the cliff._

_Beyond the rock there is only darkness, spreading far and wide and deep. But far, far below, you see a small speck of light, that glows and beckons you forward. You know, that that is where you must go—not now, but someday. But you're not ready yet. You turn in front and shake your head. "Not fully," you say in reply. "Not yet."_

_"Not ready to fall?" asks the voice. "Not ready to burn?"_

_"Someday," you whisper. The wind in front of you solidifies, a figure you know materializing before your eyes. You would know that face anywhere. A soft hand touches your cheek. "Then when you are ready I will come to you and we will fall together," it says. An ache of affection presses against the back of your throat as it caresses your face. "Then you will find out why you came here. Why you were chosen." A featherlight touch ghosts across your lips. You feel the wind fan across it as the voice whispers, "We can burn together."_

_The figure begins to dissolve into air, and you reach out desperately, but your hands catch at thin air. "Wait!" you cry. "Don't go!" But as you watch the figure vanishes with one last whisper, leaving you alone with the trees and the sky and the darkness and that one small spot of light deep down below._

+++

You sit bolt upright with a cry, feeling sweat trickle down the back of your neck. It sticks to your forehead, and plasters your nightgown to your back. You're breathing heavily, and your heart is slamming unnaturally loud and fast in your chest.

You massage your temples with the tips of your fingers, taking long, deep breaths to slow your heartbeat. Once it does, you swallow past your dry throat and look out the window. It's still dark, and the stars are swallowed by the inky, absolute darkness. The moon gleams like a silver coin, and you gaze at it for a long while.

You jump as the door bursts open, and a very harried-looking and rumpled Lyvya spills inside. "Miss!" she says. "Are you all right? I heard you cry out just now." Her dressing gown is hanging off her shoulders, and her long blond curls are loose. You've never noticed how long they are—they reach her waist, like curls of gold. She advances with concern.

"I'm fine," you sigh. "Just a dream."

Her eyes crinkle. "A nightmare?"

You shake your head. "No. I don't remember the dream, but it definitely wasn't a nightmare. It was just... strange. I don't know, but..." You trail off. "Almost like a vision or something."

She goes over to the table and pours you a glass of cold water, then hands it to you. You take a grateful gulp, feeling better almost instantly. "Thanks," you say as you finish the glass. She smiles and takes it, then draws up to you and puts a slender hand on your shoulder. "Try to get back to sleep now, miss. It's nearly dawn."

You settle back against the pillows, feeling you'll never get back to sleep in a million years. "I don't think I can," you sigh. "I just... I'm too wound up."

She sits next to you on the bed, her hand running carefully through your hair. "Close your eyes," she says softly, and you do, feeling the rhythmic strokes of her fingers in your hair. Your eyes open just a crack, and the last thing you see are Lyvya's blue-green eyes turned to pale silver by the moonlight before you fall asleep.

+++

"So," says Lady Hisa. "You began your training yesterday, I assume."

You nod. 

She makes a face. "It's ridiculous. Women shouldn't be fighting, they should be at home, where they are meant to be. Let the men get their hands dirty, it is the job of a woman to take care of home and hearth. What on earth has proper society come to these days?" She clicks her tongue, leering at you. You clench your teeth but refrain from saying anything.

She advances, her eyes narrowing. "And it seems I am condemned to repeat myself over and over until you learn to _stop biting your lips_." She glares at you. 

You scowl at her. "I didn't bite them!" Your fingers reach up, and they settle on the slight abrasion on your lower lip. You blush fiercely as you realize you hadn't bitten it, Thorin had. You drop your hands into your lap, pressing your lips together to stop the memories that come with it. "Sorry, I won't do it again," you mumble. 

Her eyes fall, and widen. "And what is that on your neck, girl?" she squawks.

Your hand flies to your throat. "Nothing."

"Lower your hand," she orders, and you do so reluctantly. Her eyes widen again.

"What on earth happened?" she shrieks. You blush harder. "I tripped and fell."

She raises a skeptical brow. "You fell on your neck? Dear girl, I know a love bite when I see one. And that is one on your throat. What were you up to last night, young lady?" She smiles sickly.

You grit your teeth. "I have no idea what you're talking about." Your fingers reach up to cover the small bite mark there. You curse yourself inwardly. Why hadn't you worn a dress with a higher neck? 

"Oh?" Her sickly smile widens. "Would you deny it if I told you someone caught you and the prince after dinner last night?" She sits down across from you with a flourish, her eyes cold and hard. Your face burns. 

_Shit_ , you think. Then you think, _Shit_ , again. "What?"

"You were caught," she says smugly. "By—"

"Saelle," you practically spit. "I thought I saw her, but I..."

"I didn't believe her, at first," she gloats. "I nearly laughed when she told me—you're such a prudish little thing, when she told me she caught you in the corridor where anyone could see you I thought she was mistaken." She gives a small laugh that makes you want to punch something.

"It's none of her business, or yours either," you snap. "Lay off. What did she say, anyway?"

"Is it not? She was quite irritated, I will tell you that. I don't think she likes you very much." She simpers. "I believe her exact words were, 'I caught Thorin in the corridor with his hands all over the new princess and his tongue halfway down her throat'. She wasn't too pleased." Her eyes glint with thinly veiled amusement.

Your cheeks flame. "What is her problem? Why did she come tell you, anyway?"

Her eyes flash. "She was my best student a few years ago. After her mother died it was me she came to, and me who took her in. I trained her to be the next princess, the next queen. She would have made the best princess this kingdom has ever seen." She sneers. "But then you came along and took the prince without even trying, without fighting for the position. How do you think that made her feel? Something she had been preparing for her whole life was simply stolen by some upstart. And they asked me to teach you and groom you into what she should have been." She takes a deep breath. "Of course she hates you. She has all he reason to."

"I didn't even know," you say. "I never wanted this!" 

"But now I'm sure you do," she sneers. "Now that you've realized what comes with the prince—the power that comes with being his wife."

"I don't care about the power I get," you snap. "As long as I—" You break off. "As long as I..."

"You what? Love him?" She leers. "How do you know he cares for you and doesn't only want you for what you can give him?"

The accusation stings. You remember the way he'd looked at you yesterday, and the way he'd said your name. There was no way he could fake that. You shake your head. "Stop it. Stop saying things about stuff you don't even know anything about. I know what you're trying to do, and it's not working."

"So you love him?" She sneers. "Come now, be real, girl! How long have you known him?"

You gape at her. "Maybe I'm not totally in love with him, but maybe one day I—"

"Oh, dear Mahal, can you hear yourself?" she cackles. "That is not how it works, dear child. This is not some novel where the last line is 'and they lived happily ever after'. Anything can happen. Men are fickle. He may want you one day, and the next day you might catch him in bed with another woman. You may want him one day, and be bored of him the next. How do you know if this is meant to last?"

"Why are you saying this?" you whisper. "What did I ever do to you?"

"All I ever wanted," she says, "was for Saelle to take the throne as queen one day. But you stole that from her, from me. And I won't ever forgive you for that." She sighs. "You may not have known, but the fault still lies on your shoulders."

Your eyes well, and you force the tears down. "But I..."

"One day," she says, "you will realize that I was right. You'll see his loyalty waver and you will wish you listened to me."

"What do you want me to do?" you whisper. 

"Leave this Mountain if you know what is good for you and this kingdom and your precious little lover prince. If you want to help this place, leave it and don't look back."

You shake your head, your eyes welling more. "I'm not going to listen to you," you say. "All you care about is what you want. You never think about other people. Sorry to burst your bubble, but the world does not revolve around you and Saelle. No matter how much she may act like it. If you're responsible for her behavior and upbringing, then you should teach her that jealousy doesn't become her. It's petty and it's not going to take her anywhere in life. Tell her to stay away from me and Thorin and tell her to get over herself."

She stands up, clearly furious. "She deserves that crown!" she snarls. "More than you ever did."

"She was never meant to have it," you say. "It wasn't hers to take, and it never will be."

"Who are you to decide that?" she screeches. "You know nothing!"

"Why can't you just accept that she's never going to have it and move on?" you demand. "Let her find someone who can actually love her!"

"So you think the prince will not come to love her in due time?"

Your honest answer is 'No', but you don't think it'd be wise to say that. Your silence apparently stretches on for too long, because now Lady Hisa looks even angrier than before. "A few months here and you've already become one of them," she hisses. "It seems we've done our jobs too well. Well, in that case, I don't think you need me anymore."

You set your jaw. "I don't think I need you, either. I don't think I ever did. All you did was make it harder for me."

"Then leave," she snarls. "Go, and never come back. I do not want to see you in this room ever again, and if I do find you here, I will show you what I can be. I dismiss you eternally from this class, _princess_ Y/N. Get out."

There are a thousand things you want to say, but you say none of them. Instead you get to your feet and stalk out of the room through the shelves, and slam the door as hard as you can behind you as you leave. 

You don't look back.

+++

"You're early," notes Faryn.

You sigh, rubbing at your eyes. "Yes, well. Lady Hisa kicked me out."

"I see. Well, there's always tomorrow, isn't there?"

"No, I mean she kicked me out forever. I was eternally dismissed. I'm never going back to that class ever again." Now that you say it aloud, it sounds too good to be true.

His multicolored eyes are wide. "Oh," is all he manages to say. "How did you manage it?"

"We... had a fight."

"That's news to me."

"Ha ha. Anyway, this one was especially bad, so she kicked me out forever."

"Ouch. What was this fight about? Your nails? Or perhaps your eyelashes? Maybe even your wrists?"

You frown down at your hands. "What's wrong with my wrists?"

"They're skinny," he informs you. "Sort of bony."

"Hey! I like my wrists." You inspect the body part in question, frowning. "Are they really?"

He laughs. "Y/N, just tell me."

"Well... It was about Thorin."

He looks up with a frown. "Really?" When you nod, he shrugs. "She's a little too old for him, to be perfectly honest."

"Faryn," you groan. "Spare me from your horrible jokes."

"All right, all right. Firstly, they're not horrible, you just can't appreciate good humor. Secondly, why was she angry?"

"Because of Saelle. She caught—" You slam your foot onto the brakes. "She caught..."

"Caught? Caught what?"

You clear your throat. "Me, and... Thorin."

He frowns, then as realization suffuses him his frown melts into a grin. "No."

You wince. "Yes."

He bursts out laughing. "What did she catch you doing? Tell me you gave her a good show."

You smack his shoulder. "Faryn, I swear."

"Fine, fine. But really, I hope she didn't see too much?" His grin is still in place. You blush furiously. "I don't think so. Look, I get that we weren't exactly in a private place, but—"

"Youre joking," he says. 

"No," you sigh. 

"Who would have thought?" he sighs. "You seem more..."

"Reasonable?"

"Well, yes." 

"Thanks a lot," you sigh. "But that's not important. What will I tell Dís?"

"How about the truth?"

You bite your lip. "'Hey, Dís, Lady Hisa threw me out of her classroom indefinitely because we had a fight about Saelle catching me and Thorin... outside the ballroom last night'?"

"Catching you... what?" You smack his shoulder again and he laughs. "Sorry, it's just too good to pass up. What exactly did she catch you doing?"

You cough and don't reply. "Um," is all you say.

"No adult content?"

You groan. "Faryn!"

"Sorry," he says again, but he's laughing. "This is just overwhelming. But really, on a serious note, it wasn't too bad, was it?"

"Not really." You frown. "Not that bad, but... It's still mortifying."

"Naturally."

"You sound like Frerin. Endless teasing and jokes that make no sense."

"My jokes make perfect sense, I'll have you know. Anyway, tell Dís something, it's your business. We still have work to do." He throws you a heavy book and you catch it out of reflex. "I forgot to tell you something," you say. "I had a weird dream last night."

He slides his glasses on and peers at you. "Shoot," he says, rifling through papers.

"I don't remember it, but I woke up all clammy and cold and sort of wound up. Someone came... and told me something about why I came here."

His head snaps up. "You had a dream? Was it unnaturally vivid? Blurry, perhaps? Did you recognize the person who was there?"

"It was both vivid and blurry at once. I did recognize them, and their voice, but... Now I can't remember it."

"Where were you?"

"A... A forest? A mountain? I can't recall." You vaguely remember the wind, and how it had touched your skin and soothed you. "There was wind. The wind was talking. It sort of coalesced into a person, I knew them, but I don't know who."

"What did they say?" He is all business now, any prior teasing and poking fun gone. He's brisk and efficient, a hand gripping a quill as he takes notes. 

"Something about learning why I came here, and something about falling together. There... there was a cliff. And a bit of light all the way down. That's all I can remember."

"The path to enlightenment, perhaps?" He removes his glasses and frowns. "Was it male?"

"I don't know. Most likely yes."

"Do you remember anything about their face? Eyes, hair, voice?"

"Nothing."

"Did they—he—touch you?" He scribbles something on his parchment and looks up. You nod slowly. He sighs. "You didn't fall down the cliff, did you?"

You shake your head. 

"I don't understand," he says. "Why didn't you fall? Or jump?"

"I think... I think I had a choice. And I said no."

His eyes spark. "Excellent. This is clearly an answer. You fall, you learn why you came. What happened yesterday? Anything strange, odd, things you can't explain?"

"Yesterday? Nothing."

"Did anything happen for the first time yesterday?"

"I don't think there's any—" You stop abruptly. 

"Tell me anything," he says, putting a hand on your shoulder. "Even if you think it's silly. It may change what we know. It could be anything."

"Well..." You blush. "Yesterday I kissed Thorin for the first time."

He narrows his eyes. "You'd never kissed him before yesterday?"

"No."

"That can't be a coincidence," he mutters. "It must be linked somehow."

"Faryn, it was just a kiss." _Or ten. Or fifteen. Or twenty._

"You don't understand. This could change everything—" He breaks off, his eyes narrowing further. He starts muttering to himself, scribbling and tearing through papers. He blinks up at you. "Could you come back tomorrow? I'll be researching till then."

"Okay," you say, standing. "Tomorrow, then." You know better than to wait for a reply; when Faryn is working he's detached from the world. Sure enough, when you look back just before closing the door, his head is bent and he's poring over books and papers, still muttering to himself. 

You shut the door.

+++

"Really? She said never come back?" Dís looks surprised. "That's especially vicious. And all because you had an argument?"

"Well," you say, "it was a pretty bad argument, in my defense."

"I'm sure," she laughs. "What about?"

You swallow. "Saelle," you say.

"Aha. I'm sorry, I should have told you she's practically her mother figure. She's very proud of her. I can't say I share her sentiment." She sighs. "Anyhow, I think it's not too hard a blow, seeing as you're doing fine now. I don't think you need those classes anymore anyways. How will you fill the time?"

"I'll go for history," you say immediately. "It's better than nothing. Or training."

"Alternate between the two." She looks down at your schedule in her hands and promptly tears it in half, throwing the pieces away. "Looks like you'll no longer be needing that, hmm?" She grins at you. "At least you're rid of Hisa. I should be telling you to go back, but keep this quiet, all right? It's our little secret." She winks. 

"My lips are sealed," you say with a grin. "Excellent," she chirps. "I'll have a word with Hisa later—"

"I don't think that's wise," you say. "Just leave it, it's fine. It's done, there's nothing you can do. If I'd known that she was so close to Saelle, I wouldn't have said anything."

"How did you end up talking about her of all people?" She adjusts her cuffs, frowning.

You balk. "Well." You clear your throat. 

Her eyes narrow. "Y/N. I know that look. Frerin pulls it out all the time. What are you hiding?"

You sag, defeated. "During the party yesterday, Saelle sort of walked in on... I mean, not really walked in on, she just sort of caught—outside the ballroom—it was a total accident—"

She holds up a hand and you come to a screeching halt. "You and Thorin?"

You nod mutely. 

A small smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. "She saw you two? And told Hisa about it. And she played that card on you today, and it turned into an argument about you and her and him and everybody. Am I right?"

"Perfectly."

She pats your shoulder. "I'm so happy you both are finally starting something," she gushes. "I was afraid this would be one of those stiff things, where you can't even look at each other. I was waiting for this!" She claps her hands.

"Wait," you say. "You're not... mad?"

"Mad?" She stares at you. "Y/N, I'm ecstatic. You've been getting close for weeks now. I was waiting for this moment. Did he kiss you or did you kiss him?"

"He kissed me, but—wait, this got me kicked out of a class forever. Isn't it—"

"My brother, the eternal gentleman. No, it doesn't matter, your etiquette is fine. Honestly, those classes hurt more than they helped." She sighs. "I'm so happy for you." She drops a kiss on your cheek. "Give me some adorable nieces and nephews, all right?" With that she glides away, leaving you with your hand still up and your mouth still open. You blink. You will never understand Dís.

+++

A deep ache spreads from your lower back, radiating outwards and making you double over in pain. You're sitting on your bed, swathed in blankets and holding a hand to your stomach as the pain intensifies.

It's midmorning, and the sunlight is pale but strong. A bar of it slants directly onto your bed, warming you but doing nothing to stop the horrible pain in your back. You fumble for a glass of water and take a long draft, sighing deeply.

Lyvya bustles into the room, holding a bunch of hot, damp cloths. "Here you are, miss," she says. "Hold these a moment, it'll help a bit." She helps you hold the hot cloths to your stomach, and the ache dissipates a little. Another cramp tears through your lower spine and you double over again. It helps just a little when you do. 

"It'll be all right, miss," says Lyvya, pressing another cloth to your skin. "It's just a few days. I've had my fair share of monthly pains." She whisks the cloths away to get them damp again, and you wince, holding your stomach as she does.

"I'm sure you should be glad you don't have any classes today," says Lyvya's voice from the bathroom. "You'd be in no fit state to attend them."

"Yes, I'm quite glad," you say through gritted teeth. "Now if only I wasn't cramping so—much—" You double over yet again, groaning. "Why does it hurt this much?"

"There we go," she says, placing another cloth on your stomach. The ache lessens. "You should eat something," she says reproachfully. "You'll be weak otherwise."

"I'll throw up if I eat anything," you sigh. "I can't."

"I'll go down to the kitchens and brew you a pot of mint tea," she says. "It always helps me, and it's easy to make. Now you wait here, miss. No funny business, and take rest. You'll be back in proper order in a day or two." 

"Fine," you say moodily. Lyvya departs, hurrying out the door and closing it. You sit in silence, wincing every few seconds as you continue to cramp comtinuously. Sometimes you hate being a girl. 

There's a knock on the door, and you frown. It can't be Lyvya; she left only a minute ago. "Come in," you call. 

The door opens, and you sit upright in undignified haste, yanking the blankets up to your chest even if you're wearing your quite modest nightgown. You're suddenly very aware of how messy your hair is and how unkempt you look.

"Thorin!" You swallow, scooting backwards. "What are you doing here?"

He looks surprised. "You weren't at breakfast, so I came to see if anything was wrong."

Some small part of you recognizes how sweet that is. The other, larger part of you wants desperately for him to leave so that he doesn't have to see you sunk to your very lowest. You just want to sulk in peace. Is that too much to ask?

"I'm indisposed," you say tightly.

"Dís told me what happened with Lady Hisa," he says, and you wince. "Yeah, I messed up pretty bad."

"Is everything okay?" He's looking at you strangely and you gasp as pain rips through your stomach. "Yes," you say, eyes watering. "Everything's fine. Great."

There's movement, and when you blink he's standing right next to you, all worried blue eyes and a concerned expression that makes you really want to kiss him. You blink again, and he swims into focus. 

"You're unwell," he says, his tone as reproachful as Lyvya's. He puts a hand on your cheek. "Are you sure you're all right—?"

"I'm fine." You jerk away, biting your lip to keep from groaning, hoisting the blankets up a little more. 

"But you look..." His eyes search you and you flush. "You look _not fine_. What's wrong?" 

"I said I'm indisposed. I will be. You know, for just a few days." He looks confused. God, men are so dense. And so oblivious to women's problems. You roll your eyes. "Thorin," you sigh. "It's that time of the month." You raise your eyebrows, blushing a little. 

"Oh." He blushes too, blinking. You bite your lip to keep from laughing as he moves away, his cheeks still pink. You've never seen him blush before. "I'll just go then," he says, and you giggle a bit as he makes to leave, stuttering out an apology.

"Come here," you say, and he advances warily. Once he's within grabbing distance you do just that, laughing as you pull his lips to yours, giving him a sloppy, quick kiss, then letting him go. "Now you can leave," you say, covering your mouth with a hand. You can't help but laugh as he moves towards the door and nearly bumps into Lyvya, who's holding a steaming pot of mint tea that you can smell all the way from the bed. Before she can even say 'Your Majesty' he mutters an apology and shuts the door with a snap.

You're still giggling when Lyvya pours the tea and hands you a cup. "Now what was that about?" she asks, putting the pot on the table by the bed. 

You shake your head, still wearing a bemused smile as you take a sip of tea. The strong, slightly bitter flavor coats your tongue. You shake your head, smiling. "Nothing," you say. "Nothing at all."


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Love isn't moral or immoral. It just is."_
> 
> _–Cassandra Clare_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone. I've got a bit of an announcement. I am actually moving in a couple of days, and so I have no clue when I can update again. There will not be wifi for a few days, and then I have to get settled, so I don't know when I can come back, but expect me in about a week or two. Hope you all stick around till then! See you in a few weeks. <3

The flute of champagne in your hands is untouched, the golden liquid inside glinting in the lights of the chandelier. It seems like there's a party every day, for absolutely no reason. There's another one today, and as usual, you have no clue why. Lyvya said it was going to be like this until Frerin and Yraena get married. When you'd complained she'd basically told you to stop whining and stick it out, then had proceeded to dress you in an unnecessarily lavish dress.

You frown down at it. It's deep red, and off-shoulder, blooming around you like the petals of a flower. Your hair is up, a simple updo set with rubies. It's the getup of a princess. Leave it to Lyvya to make you look the part. 

"Excuse me," says a cold voice, "is this seat taken?" 

You look up, your heart skipping a beat when you see a waterfall of silver hair and narrowed green eyes. You mutely shake your head.

She sits, crossing her legs and folding her arms with perfect posture. Her chin is tilted at a slight angle to indicate that she's confident but not arrogant, and her eyelashes are lowered but her eyes alert. Everything about her is perfectly poised and elegant. Now you know that's Lady Hisa's doing. 

Your eyes immediately dart around the room, searching frantically. Thorin is nowhere to be seen. You silently curse the prince inside your head. Of course he'd disappear when you needed him the most. 

You glance sideways at Saelle. She's not looking at you. Her dress looks like it's made of metal, gleaming and iridescent. It clashes perfectly with her hair and her lips, which are sparkling blue-black. Another helpless pang of jealousy hits you. How can she be so perfect all the time? 

"I heard about what happened," she says suddenly.

You jump a bit, then turn to look at her. She's not looking at you, but in front, her face expressionless. You sigh, setting your glass of champagne down. "Look, I don't want to talk about this right now, okay?"

"But I do." She turns, her eyes opaque. You fight to keep your face as blank as hers. "If you want me to apologize—"

"I don't." 

"Then what do you want me to tell you?"

"What did Hisa say about me?" Her face tightens minutely. "Did she tell you anything?"

You shake your head, at a loss. "She... didn't really say much about—"

"You have to tell me if she said anything," she says. She definitely looks scared now. Your eyebrows furrow. "She just said that she took you in after—"

"After my mother died, yes," she says. "And?"

"And that she trained you to be the next princess..." You bite your lip, and quickly stop when you hear Lady Hisa's voice in your head. "And that's it, really."

She visibly relaxes. "That's all?"

You nod. She nods too, then looks in front again, her posture visibly looser. Your mind whirls. If she looked so scared, it can only mean that that fear is directed at Hisa. A mother figure, yes, but how far did that go? 

"Why?" you ask tentatively.

She purses her lips. "She can be a little... demanding sometimes, that's all. I'm sure you know what I mean."

"As a teacher, yes. But if she brought you up..." You raise your eyebrows. She swallows. "I'm afraid I don't know what you mean."

"What did she do?"

Her jaw clenches. "She taught me what I had to to. That's it." Her tone and posture are sending off very strong 'back-off-right-now' vibes, but you press on. "Did you want to do what she told you to?"

Her eyes flash, then shutter. "All she wanted for me was the best," she says tightly. "Doesn't everyone?"

"But you have to want it, too," you say. "Did you even want the crown?"

She twines her fingers tightly in her lap, her composure slipping. "O–of course I did."

"Saelle." Her eyes dart to you. "Did you really want it?"

"I—I don't—" It's the first time you've seen her so undignified. She blinks rapidly, her chest rising and falling rapidly. Then her head snaps up, her eyes narrowed. She glares at you, her composure hitched back into place. "Hisa warned me about your silver-tongued tricks," she sneers. It's Hisa's sneer, all teeth and snarling. How hadn't you noticed how similar they are? "I should've known better than to listen to you. All you've ever wanted is to kick me out of the way. I do want that crown, I've always wanted it. Don't tell me what I can and can't do. You're not queen already, even if you want to be." She stands with a flourish, stalking away. 

You sigh, picking up your glass and draining it in one draft. It burns on the way down, and a pleasant fire buzzes in your stomach, radiating outwards. Your vision blurs a little, adding an oddly shimmering quality to your vision. 

You'd nearly gotten through to her. You're sure of that. She'd been brought up by Hisa, and she was the vessel, just a means to an end. Hisa wanted the fame, and she used Saelle to get it. You'd used to hate Saelle; now you just feel bad for her. She was brought up blind, not allowed to search for her own destiny. 

"That looked like a pretty dramatic conversation," says a voice, and you turn to see that Yraena has occupied Saelle's place. You sigh, fingernails tapping the tablecloth. "It was, sort of," you say with a shrug. 

"She didn't give you any trouble, did she?" She sips from her own glass. You shrug again, disheartened. "Not really."

"Here, this will cheer you up," she says, sliding a small plate towards you. Set on it is a slice of cake, shaped perfectly and decorated with frosting and icing. "Cream cheese and strawberry," she says, nodding. "I baked them this morning."

You raise your eyebrows, surprised. "Really?"

She nods, glowing with pride. "Dís found out that I liked to bake, and, well..." She grins. "I'm sure you can see where that conversation went."

You laugh. Leave it to Dís to make everyone's day a bit brighter. "Good thing, too." You take a small bite of cheesecake. Your eyes widen. "Oh, Yraena, this is so good." She blushes as you finish off the rest in a few bites. "I'm in love."

She giggles. "Don't let Thorin hear you say that."

"Say what?" asks Thorin's voice, and he slides into another empty seat next to you. You wave him off with your dessert fork. "You've just been upstaged by a strawberry cheesecake."

"Oh?" He raises a brow. "In what sense?"

"In the sense that's it's her new favorite thing to eat," says a new voice, and Frerin occupies the last empty seat at the table. He winks at you and you blush as you get what he meant.

"Frerin," chides Yraena, hitting him lightly on the shoulder. He holds up his hands in mock surrender. "Fine, fine. But it was a good joke."

"No, it was terrible," says Thorin, but he's a little pink around the cheeks too. You hide your grin. "But then again, all your jokes are."

"My jokes are first-rate, thank you very much," says Frerin. "How about this: An elf walked into a bar. A dwarf walked under it."

There's a moment of silence. 

"Was that supposed to prove I'm right, or you're right?" asks Thorin finally. 

"Well—it's meant to prove I'm right, obviously," says Frerin. 

"Well, it did the opposite of what it was supposed to, then," says Thorin. "That was the worst one yet."

Frerin harrumphs. "You don't know a good joke when you see one."

"And you wouldn't know a good joke if it smacked you in the face," says Thorin. "And, believe me, they do that a lot."

Yraena and you catch each other's eye. Her lower lip is wobbling with the effort not to smile. "While this is a really intellectual conversation and everything," you say, "could we drop the subject now?"

"Please," adds Yraena. 

"Fine," says Frerin. "But this isn't over." He glares at his brother, who rolls his eyes in reply. "Sometimes I feel like the older one," he mutters. 

"I think it's time we put those torturous dance lessons to use," says Frerin, standing and taking Yraena's hand, bowing courteously. "May I have this dance, fair maiden?"

She blushes. "Of course." He leads her off, both of them smiling at each other. You can't help but laugh. "They're so adorable," you say. "It's so sappy."

"Mmhmm." Thorin takes your hand across the table, fingers tracing over your knuckles. You suppress a shiver but twine your fingers around his. "The offer about the kitchens still stands," he murmurs, and you swat his hand. "Absolutely not."

He laughs, his thumb brushing gently over your skin. It tickles a little, and you squirm. "I saw you talking to Saelle," he says, so quietly you strain to hear it. "Was there a problem?" 

You exhale, shaking your head. "Not really."

"That's not an answer."

"Well... when what happened with Hisa happened, she sort of let it slip that after Saelle's mother dies, she took her in as a daughter. And she trained her to be the next princess."

"As in..." He trails off and you nod. "Basically to be your wife. And so when I turned up... out of nowhere, literally, she got a little miffed. But the thing is, Saelle never wanted that. The crown, or the title, I think. She doesn't know what she wants at all, because all Hisa drilled into her was marrying you. Now that you're off the radar, she's lost." You shrug. "I figured that out while talking to her. She seemed so scared of Hisa, I just..."

"Don't," he says. You frown. "Don't what?"

"I know what you're thinking," he says. "That you didn't even try but you still got engaged to me while she worked for it but didn't—don't blame yourself for her predicament."

You hadn't even realized, but you do feel like it's your fault. You blink at your intertwined fingers. How has he gotten you so well? 

"But how could I not?" you ask. "I just dropped out of the sky and... and your father gave me away like I was some prize—" You sigh, looking away. Now is hardly the time to worry about how you feel about that. "But that's not important—"

"It is. You can tell me," he says softly. "What's bothering you?"

"I just—" You slump. "I landed here, and he carted me off with you just to get me out of the way, and now that I'm gone he just forgot about it. I wasn't—I'm not even his to give away."

"Y/N." His hand is warm against yours, and he presses your skin further into his. "I know how that feels. I'm his son and he did the same thing. To you... he doesn't own you, but he does own me. And just pushing me away did sting for a while. But... now I'm glad he did, because it brought me here, and I think this is the right way to go."

You look up at him. "Thorin... I'm sorry."

"Don't be. Now tell me what else is wrong."

You heave a sigh. "She worked so hard, for so long, and I just snatched that away in a day. All her hopes were just gone. Isn't that my fault?"

"Y/N—"

"And I feel like if I hadn't fallen here, she could have gotten what she worked so hard and so long for."

"Which is what? Me? That's what Hisa wanted her to have. And do you think that would have worked out? She'd have me, and what comes with me, and wouldn't have anything more to do with me. When they'd ask for heirs, we'd oblige, and... that would be it. A loveless marriage."

"You don't know that."

"I think I do." His gaze is steady. 

"But she's so... beautiful."

"So are you. Why are you suddenly doubting yourself? This is what Hisa wants. For you to leave and make the path clear for her pawn. Don't think like that."

"But they all blame me."

"I don't." His eyes soften. "And I think that carries the vote."

Before you can react he pulls you to him, his free hand coming up to cup your cheek as he presses a soft, lingering kiss to your lips, seemingly uncaring about the fact that half the room must be staring. You blush but kiss him back, your lips parting under the pressure, yielding. 

He pulls away slowly, his thumb running along the arch of your cheekbone. "Let them figure out what that meant," he murmurs, and you flush. "What did it mean?"

"That I'm going to marry you," he says softly. "And that I want to."

+++

The knife flies from your hand, hurtling end over end in the air until it sticks, quivering slightly, in the outer rim of the center ring in the target. You step back, panting, surveying your handiwork. You're getting better, but... still. Practice.

You stomp over to the target and retrieve your knives, then take your place at the other end of the room again, aiming carefully.

"I think you need to move a little more to your left," says a voice, and you jump about a foot in the air, dropping your knives as you whirl around to see Yraena, wearing her loose white training clothes and no shoes. 

"Yraena! You nearly gave me a heart attack."

She comes towards you, an arm held out. "Here, let me."

You scoop a knife off the floor and drop it in her outstretched hand. She positions herself opposite the target and takes careful aim, her thumb parallel to the blade in perfect position. She leans back, then forward, the knife shooting from her fingers. It sings through the air, then buries itself in the center of the target. She turns back to you. "You try."

You stand where you were before, fingers gripping the blade as you mean backward. "Wait," she calls. "Make sure all your weight rushes into your wrist. Hold it firm. Inhale, aim. Exhale, release." She nods at the target. "Sight along the blade."

You do as she says, sighting along the metal tip as you allow your body to lean back. You exhale, then release the blade. It flies so fast it's a blur of silver, and it sticks in the target, in the center ring, not at the center, but closer than before. 

"Thanks," you say, turning to her. "That was better than the last one."

She nods. You both throw a few more knives, then she says, "Could you help me with fencing? I'm not too good at it."

"Sure," you say. "Grab a couple of sabers."

Once the blade is in your hand, you give it a few experimental swishes. "Okay, it's balanced. Now, first you'll want to aim for your opponent's hilt. It's the weakest part, and the least balanced. If you land a good hit, then the blade will fall."

"Like you did with Frerin."

"Right. Try it."

She hits your hilt, then twists, the way you had disarmed Frerin. The blade clatters to the ground. "See? Now try while in combat. It's a bit harder, but..." You wave the blade.

You spar for a few strokes, and though she's nowhere near as good as Thorin, she's still a formidable opponent. She actually gets past your guard and twists the hilt of your saber, and your fingers free it. You flash her a thumbs up. "That was great."

She laughs, pulling her hair up. "Beginner's luck," she says. 

You change back into your regular clothes, and sit on the weapons table, next to the deadly knives and swords. It doesn't really bother you. 

"So," she says. "Glad to be rid of etiquette?"

"Oh, God, yes." You sigh. "It was a nightmare."

She laughs. "I'm sure. It didn't look fun."

"It wasn't. I'd rather have history, honestly."

She smiles. "At least you've got something to keep you busy all day," she says. "I've only got this room."

"And Frerin," you say, grinning at her sideways. She blushes. "Oh, stop it," she says. "And I did see you at the party, you know. And it wasn't as if you were trying to be inconspicuous or anything."

You flush too, saying nothing. She goes on. "Dís nearly vibrated to pieces with excitement."

"Of course she did," you sigh. "She's really... enthusiastic about this sort of thing."

She laughed. "Very."

There's a companionable silence between you for a while, broken only by the faint clink as you play with one of the daggers on the table. You glance at the clock on the wall and hop down from your perch. "I've got history now," you sigh. "See you at dinner?"

"See you," she says, picking up a bow from the table. The last thing you see before you close the doors is her arrow flying into the dead center of the target.

+++

"No new dreams? No visions? Nothing?" Faryn asks desperately.

"No," you sigh. "Maybe it was just a dream."

"Impossible. It has to mean something. But what...?" He extracts a sheaf of parchment from the stack on his desk and squints at it. He slides on his glasses and reads it again, then frowns. "Can you try to remember anything else?"

"I have tried. I can't remember anything."

"It must mean something. It has to. These things do not happen by random accident." He sighs, then picks up a book. "I did some more research."

You wait.

"And," he goes on, "there is nothing that connects the disappearances of the others. They have nothing in common with you."

"Is there anyone who fell in here from somewhere else?" You look over his shoulder at the book and he sighs, shaking his head. "They've covered up their tracks the same way we did. If there is someone, we don't know it."

"But I can't be the only one who fell into Middle-earth from nowhere," you say, a tad desperately. "There has to be someone else."

"Like I said, the people who found them obviously hid them away. Or they could not have been found, and they died in the wild. Nobody here has cause to suspect that you literally dropped from the sky from another dimension," he says reasonably. "Don't worry."

"Fine, but... What about the people who disappeared from here?"

He snorts. "You said there were only men from where you came from?"

"Yes."

"Imagine an elf just wandering down the street wondering how in Mahal's name he got there."

You roll your eyes. "This is so not the time."

"Or a dwarf in full battle armor just walking by."

You crack a smile. "In the mall, or at a donut shop."

"Mall?" He frowns. "What's a donut?"

"Nothing. Just... earth stuff."

He frowns again. "But what could have pulled them there?"

"Maybe they were born into the wrong world and destiny yanked them back?" you suggest. "It's possible."

"Maybe, but then it'd only be men going through those portals. We have rare disappearances of elves, dwarves, and even hobbits. And you're human. Something in this Mountain pulled you here. I think the person in your dream was an embodiment of that thing."

"Maybe the Mountain itself?" 

He makes a thoughtful face. "Maybe. Was it a dwarf?"

"Probably."

"Then it could be." He nods. "But we have no way of knowing for sure." 

"Great. Now what?" 

"Now," he announces, "we will do more research."

You make a face. "Is that going to help?"

"Research always helps," he says. You sit down, pulling a stack of books towards you. "I could fall asleep and hope that I get another one of those dreams," you suggest. Faryn rolls his eyes, taking off his glasses. "Nice try, Y/N." 

You sigh, opening the first book. "Well, it was worth a shot."

+++

"Remind me how we got here again?" sighs Frerin, rocking a sleeping Kili in his arms. You're holding Fili, who's still awake, albeit sleepily. You look down, brushing his hair back.

"Dís gave us babysitting duty," you say dully. "And we were too nice to say no."

"Right." He pats Kili's back. "And why did she pick the two of us?"

"Because she doesn't trust you and Yraena—"

"And you and Thorin—"

"To be in the same room alone together," you finish, and both of you sigh in unison. 

"Well, I'm not really complaining," he says. "I love the boys, but..." He sighs, rocking Kili with more vigor as he starts to wake up. A few seconds later he drifts off back to sleep. 

"But really," he says after a minute, "it's not like... I mean, what was Dís scared of? It's not as if we're not careful." He sways Kili's little form in his arms. "And I thought she was absolutely ecstatic about this. She nearly cried when she saw Thorin kiss you yesterday."

You grin, patting Fili's head. "So I heard."

He rolls his eyes, but he's smiling too. You've never been amazingly social, and making friends had always been more of a chore for you. But somehow Frerin makes it so easy to talk, and so easy to like him. You're already relaxed. His presence radiates a sort of easygoing vibe that sets you at ease. 

"So," he says conversationally. "You and my brother, hmm?"

You sigh, rocking Fili in your arms. He's beginning to fall asleep. "Is this the part when you tell me that if I hurt him, you'll kill me?"

He snorts. "If you hurt Thorin, he's perfectly capable of killing you himself. Possibly with a variety of weapons. But, no, that's not what I was going to say."

You wait. He sighs deeply, then goes on. "He's never really been with someone exclusively like this. And you're all set to be married as well, this is a big leap for him." He sounds as if he doesn't want to be saying this, but it's part of the deal when you're an older brother. "I just want to make sure you two are taking things slowly. Not rushing into this." You blush when you remember that it was Frerin who'd caught you two in the training room. 

"Frerin, it's not... I mean, I've never been with anyone before this, either. And... it'd been... for weeks, I was... I don't know..."

"Y/N, I'm not looking for an explanation as to why you were making out in the training room. I'm looking for the confirmation that you want to take this further with him and that you two are comfortable around each other, that's it."

You blink. "We are. Comfortable, that is."

He nods. "Then good. That's all I wanted to ask." 

"Is it bro code or something?"

He looks at you strangely. "What now?"

You're about to open your mouth to explain in excruciating detail the idea and concept of bro code when the door opens, admitting a tired and wan-looking Dís. "Are they asleep?" she asks in a hushed voice. When you confirm an affirmative, she picks both of them up at once and starts carrying them to the nursery.

"You two should get some sleep," she whispers over her shoulder as she goes. "It's past midnight."

You nod, standing. You wince when your muscles sieze up, having been in one position for so long. Your arms are numb as well. After you shake them out thoroughly while a similarly indisposed Frerin does the same, you say your goodnights and head out.

"See you tomorrow, then, Y/N," calls Frerin, stretching like a cat and yawning widely. "'Night," you say, and his door closes. You sigh, rubbing at your eyes as you head towards your own room, ready to call it a night.

+++

"Dance lessons again?" asks Frerin, aghast. "But we're fine!"

"No," says Dís firmly. "You most certainly are not. For normal parties, I suppose you're all right, but for the Summer Ball, you are woefully unprepared for the battle."

"Shave driver," mutters Frerin when she turns her back. 

She turns again, scowling. "What was that?"

"Nothing," he sighs. 

"It had better be nothing," she sniffs. "Positions! I do not want to have to tell you twice."

You hold back a sigh and step into position, marveling at how much easier it is now that you're so much more comfortable around Thorin. His fingers spread across your waist smoothly, and your hands lace together in a synchronized motion. Even the height difference is more tolerable. 

"Left," calls Dís' voice. "Then right, then you know what to do."

You move in me smooth movement, your fingers tangling in his hair where your hand is on his shoulder. The steps are effortless, easy almost. You keep your eyes averted, looking instead at the small crease in the fabric at his shoulder. It makes the task easier.

"Please don't tell me Frerin went on full older-brother mode yesterday while you were putting the boys to bed," Thorin's voice mutters. Your eyes dart up to his. 

"Not really," you lie. 

He raises an eyebrow.

"Fine, he kind of did. Just kind of." You shrug, flashing a small smile. "It was sort of like it was an obligation."

"He tries." His fingers smooth over a wrinkle in the skirt of your dress at your waist and you can't hold back a small shiver. Luckily, he doesn't seem to notice. That, or he's just being polite. "What did he say?"

"Just that he hopes we're comfortable with each other."

"That sounds like Frerin," he mutters under his breath. "He probably gave you a speech about how I am very naive and inexperienced. Didn't he?"

"Well... yes and no. He was nicer." You smirk when he rolls his eyes. "I hope you didn't tell him that you hadn't even kissed anyone before me," he says.

"Of course I didn't. And now I wish I hadn't told you, either."

"You didn't tell me, I found out."

"And how did you do that, Sherlock?"

"Who?" He frowns at you.

You sigh deeply. "Never mind. How did you guess?"

It's his turn to smirk. "It was quite obvious. You were a bit stiff in the beginning. Among other things." His voice is brimming with implication.

You blush fiercely. "Mmh," you say.

"But you're on the path of becoming an expert," he says with a grin, and you look away again, your cheeks burning. You wish it wasn't this easy to make you blush. You gather your resolve and say, "I need practice, though. Would you be so kind as to tutor me whenever you can?"

He's not looking at you, but his lips curl up into a smile. "I'll do my best," he says. "Though I'd be quite insulted if you found another," he says, and you both look away, grinning like loons.

Half an hour later Dís seems satisfied, and you're walked back to your room by your betrothed. You can finally say that word in your head without feeling like you've swallowed a lemon. 

You lean against your door, smiling cheekily up at him. "So... is now a good time to start our lessons?"

His grin is wicked as he leans forward, your faces inches apart. "I'm ready when you are," he murmurs, and he reaches behind you to grasp the doorknob. You tip your face up as he turns the knob, pushes you gently into the room and closes the door behind you.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"When I saw you I fell in love, and you smiled because you knew."_
> 
> _–William Shakespeare_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! Hopefully this is my last hiatus, and I'm sort of settled in my new house now, or at least I can move around without tripping over a box or two. So that's all great. Hope you all like this chapter. :) I'd love a review.

You push the door to Faryn's office open, stepping inside cautiously, careful not to knock over any wayward stacks of books he might have left lying around. It wouldn't be the first time you've tripped over one of them. 

You make your way through the maze of shelves, holding your skirts up. This morning you hadn't been thinking, and by force of habit you'd gone halfway to Lady Hisa's room before you remembered that you don't have etiquette anymore. You'd doubled back, inwardly cursing yourself. 

"Y/N?" calls Faryn's voice, and you nearly trip over a stray copy of _The Reminder and Remainder of Mordor_ in your haste. "I'm here," you call, stepping into the main room and glancing around.

Faryn's head pops out right next to you and you jump a foot in the air. "Don't scare me like that!" you say, slapping his hand. "It's like you can teleport."

"We all have our secrets," he says, wiggling his fingers. 

"Well?" you ask. "Any groundbreaking discoveries you've made recently? Research, maybe? Revelations?"

He sighs dramatically. "You're not going to believe this," he says, "but I have had a very unsuccessful week. I researched, but I found nothing. No hints, no leads, no groundbreaking discoveries. I'm no closer to finding out why you've come than I was when you first arrived."

"Ouch," you say, peering into his carefully handwritten notes. "Really?"

"Really," he says mournfully. "It's horrible. I tried, really. History has covered its tracks too well. Or, rather, kings and queens have. It's ridiculous. Though I suppose it was necessary."

"I still can't remember anything from the dream," you say. "So we're even."

"I suppose," he says. "So... will you stay here and do boring research, or will you head back?"

"What would I do there?" you ask, snatching a book from the shelf. "I'd rather stay."

"Well, you do have your fiancé to distract you now," he says delicately. "Who knows what goes on behind closed doors?"

"Oh, shut up, you." You stick your tongue out at him even though you're blushing. "It's none of your business."

He puts a hand to his heart in mock hurt. "That was a harsh refusal," he says. "I am very much hurt in my heart."

"Sure," you mutter. 

"Doesn't mean I'm not still curious," he says, taking off his glasses with a grin. The violet chips in his eyes catch the light and sparkle, making him look like some bizarre, exotic insect. "I'm not playing at Lady Hisa here, but what _does_ go on in there?"

You try to tone down the blush, resolutely keeping your mouth shut. 

"I'm not being nosy or anything," he says with a wicked gleam in his eye, "but the maids around here do talk, you know. They tell each other the oddest stories. I don't listen in or anything like that," he waves away, "but one does hear if one listens."

You say nothing. Traitors.

"I did hear once that a certain someone spent almost the whole night at your room last night—"

"Who told you that?" you snort. "He left an hour later. You need to update on your gossip, Faryn. Get with the times." You give him a withering smile.

He shrugs, putting his glasses back on. "People tend to exaggerate around here, if you hadn't noticed."

"I did, thanks."

He sighs again. "But I do want you to be careful. Think this through, see if you're going at the right pace. Just keep a comfortable distance until you're sure you're happy."

You stare at him. Faryn, giving you dating advice? 

"All right, now I've said my piece as a responsible elder," he says. "It was sort of a norm."

"I see," you say, smiling. "Well, don't worry, I will. We won't... go too fast, or too far. Or whatever it is you're all worried about."

He winks. "You are engaged. To be married and everything. You'll be expected to give the king and queen heirs in a few years."

Your face flames. "You're not serious."

"One hundred percent." He seems to be enjoying himself immensely. "That's the reason most people get married in the first place."

You frown. "You don't have to be married to... you know."

He stares at you like you're crazy. "Yes, you do." His eyes clear. "At least, here you do."

"Really?" You raise your brows. "There, it was... even though they weren't in love or anything, just for the hell of it, people would."

"Odd." He grins. "Have you?"

You laugh. "Are you kidding? Of course not."

He shrugs. "Had to ask."

"Why are we having this conversation?" you ask to no one in particular. "This is history class, not gossip class."

"This is not gossip," he informs you archly. "It is a thorough psychoanalysis."

"What?"

"Dream analysis," he clarifies. 

"But we're not analyzing my dreams."

"Yes we are. At least, we were. Now we're just—"

"Gossiping."

"Nonsense. We're talking strategy. Tactics. On how to navigate palace life."

"Right."

"This will be a hundred times better than Lady Hisa's classes," he says, rubbing his hands together. "Her advice was: whenever you see an important noble, you speak to them courteously and kiss their cheeks or whatever ridiculous things you're meant to do. My advice is: run as fast as you can in the opposite direction on the pretense of getting a glass of water."

You snort. "That's what you would do."

"No," he corrects you. "I don't go out."

"Oh, that's right," you say. "You're a hermit, sitting here surrounded by books and not talking to anybody. Have you even ever dated someone?"

An odd look comes over his face. "Well," he says, suddenly seeming quiet. "Now that you mention it..." He trails off, his eyes a million miles away. He looks sad, nostalgic. Then he blinks, and the look is gone. "No," he says. "It's like I said, I don't go out. With people, either." An easy smile takes the place of his earlier melancholy. 

You don't pry. He'll tell you in his own time. He clears his throat, looking away suddenly. "I should get to work," he says, standing hastily and nearly knocking over another stack of books. "I'll see you tomorrow then." He glides off towards the shelves, and you're left staring after him, wondering what on earth had just happened.

+++

"My parents are coming here tomorrow," says Yraena.

You're sitting at the lunch table, sandwiched between Yraena and Thorin. You turn to the former, surprised. "Really?" 

She nods, leaning back. "They're staying here until the wedding, and then... they're leaving." She looks down, suddenly interested in the tablecloth. "And I'll only see them occasionally."

You put a hand on her arm and squeeze. She offers you a weak smile. "I'll live," she says. "I knew this would happen someday. It happens to every princess."

"That is so unfair," you sigh. "And your husband gets to live in his home with his family."

"Right?" She laughs. "It's very constraining to be a woman and be royalty in Middle-earth." She blinks curious black eyes at you. "What about your parents? Are they coming for the wedding?"

Beside you, Thorin tenses. The well-rehearsed lie flows easily from your lips. "My parents died before I came here. It's why I came in the first place. My father and the king were close friends, so I... I'm here to stay."

Her eyes crinkle. "Oh, I'm sorry," she says. "I didn't know."

Thorin relaxes, and so do you, and you nod. "It's all right. So," you go on. "Are your brothers coming too?"

She brightens visibly. "Yes. All three of them." She smiles. "I can't wait to see them again. It's... it's been too long." She folds her hands in her lap. 

"What are their names?" you ask. 

"Karv, Siv and Díl," she says. "They're only little things. About the age of your nephews," she says, nodding at Thorin. "I'm sure they'll get along famously," she laughs. "They're all troublemakers."

"That'll be fun," you laugh. "There won't be a single dull moment with them around."

"Even at home," she says with a reminiscent smile. "They could even convince me to join them to prank Amad or Adad. Once we colored the family cat purple with dye. I think you could hear my mother screeching from all the way here."

You laugh. "You have a family cat?"

"Had," she corrects. "She ran away a few days after the dyeing incident."

"I wonder why," you say, and both of you laugh. "She never did like us very much," she goes on with a sigh. 

"Ugh, cats," says Frerin from Yraena's other side. "I hate the vile things. Every cat—every single one—that I've ever met has scratched me till date. Every one."

"It must be because of your charming personality," says Thorin from your left. "And your habit of hissing at them before they can hiss at you."

"They're so full of themselves and lazy," says Frerin. "I despise laziness. And selfishness. Yraena, we are not keeping cats after we get married. No cats."

"Not even a little kitten?" wheedles Yraena. "A small, fuzzy little kitten with orange fur and a tiny little nose and whiskers?"

Frerin melts slightly. "No. It'll grow up to be an ugly, big cat."

"Just imagine holding it, and its fur will be so soft and it'll make the most adorable sounds."

He softens more. "Well..."

"And it'll have such big adorable eyes—"

"Fine, fine," he sighs. "Women," he mutters, sighing. "Give them an inch and they'll walk all over you."

Yraena winks at you.

+++

You lift the heavy bow in your hands, fitting an arrow to the string and taking careful aim. You sight along the arrow, your arms straining against the weight of the wooden bow. You pull the arrow back, feeling the stretch of the string as you do.

"Further," says a voice, and you jump, the arrow flying from the bow and hitting the wall, about fifty feet from where you intended it to go.

You whirl around to see Thorin leaning on the rack of bows, arms crossed casually across his chest. He raises an eyebrow at you. 

"Why does everyone love to surprise me?" you sigh. "Did you have to be all mysterious and discreet? Couldn't you have tapped my shoulder or something?"

"And then gotten skewered with your wayward arrow?" he says, unpeeling himself from the rack and coming towards you. He taps your arm. "You should have pulled it back further."

You fit another arrow to the string, pulling it back and aiming. You glance at Thorin with your brows raised. He eyes the bow. "Higher," he says.

You heft it higher.

"A little lower."

You lower your arms a little.

"A bit higher."

You let out an exasperated sigh, lowering the bow and glaring at him. He smiles a little and comes up behind you, and holds out an arm. "May I?"

You nod mutely, even though you have no idea what he asked permission for. A second later you jump slightly when his arms come around you, his hands covering yours as you both lift the bow together. He shifts, and your back curves against his chest, and his breaths tickle the back of your neck. You fight off a shiver.

"Like this," he says, and his fingers tangle with yours, pulling the arrow back. His lips just touch your nape and this time you can't hold back a shiver. "Sight along the arrow," he says. Maybe it's just your imagination, but his voice sounds slightly breathless. It's probably your imagination.

"Now let it go," he says, and you let the arrow fly, a black and red blur. It flies through the air and slams right into the middle ring of the target. You lower the bow, but you're still caged in his arms. _Hmm,_ you think lazily. _I don't mind..._

"See?" he says. His voice is definitely breathless. "That wasn't so bad. You're getting better."

You turn your head slightly. "Only because I had a very good teacher," you murmur. He laughs softly, his fingers running lightly up your arm. Abruptly he steps back, his arms falling away from you. You reel momentarily in the loss of his heat and his nearness. "Now you try," he says, nodding to the bow. He smirks at you and you make a face, turning back to the target. _Stupid, gorgeous, irritating, teasing dwarf,_ you think resentfully.

You nock an arrow, making sure to pull it back far and sight along it. You release the string and step back, watching as it buries itself in the outer rim of the inner circle of the target. You scowl at it. 

"Not bad," he says, his voice ringing out from right next to you. 

You jump again, and this time you turn with more force than you'd intended, and the bow hits his chest. It hardly seems to faze him; he arches a brow. "Ouch," he says, his eyes gleaming.

You punch his shoulder. "Why do you have to do that?"

"Do what?"

"Sneak up on me."

"If I wanted to sneak up on you that is not how I would do it," he informs you.

"Then how would you do it?"

"I'm not going to tell you, am I? That'll defeat the purpose."

"Humph," you say, unable to think of a comeback. 

He laughs, snatching the bow from you, then reaches around you to grab an arrow from the quiver, barely taking aim as he shoots. It slams into the center, splitting the other arrow through the middle. 

"Show-off," you mutter. He tosses the bow back to you and you stick your tongue out at him, dumping it back into the rack and reaching for the clasp that straps the quiver to your back across your chest. You pull at it, but it doesn't give. You mutter incoherence, pulling harder. It stays stubbornly stuck to your chest. You yank on it, sighing. _Karma, I hate you._

"You'll tear it," Thorin's voice says reproachfully, and he steps forward, gently moving your hands out of the way and taking hold of the clasp. He tugs at it for about three seconds, and it gives, unraveling. He lifts it up off your head easily.

You sigh, taking it from him. "Thanks," you say tiredly, hanging it up. "Can we do something I'm good at now?"

He laughs, pulling you in by your hand and kissing you gently. You bat him away but eventually give in, going pliant under his hands. You resurface a few minutes later and he smiles at you, brushing your hair back from your face. "Better now?"

"Much," you say, blushing. 

"You're definitely good at that," he murmurs, leaning in again. You stretch up on tiptoe, and he whispers against your mouth, "We could go somewhere else—"

You pull away, gently tapping his arm. "Not this time," you say, reveling in the deprived look on his face. "Now," you announce, "we have some training to do."

He follows you, looking faintly rejected, muttering something unsavory about women.

You hide your smile.

+++

The high collar of the dress chafes against your neck and you adjust it with a finger, refraining from fanning your face with difficulty. The movement makes your elbow bump Thorin's slightly; his arm is looped through yours. "Stop fidgeting," he hisses, and you grit your teeth. "It's this stupid dress," you hiss back. "Just leave it," he whispers, and you huff, turning away. The collar chafes against your skin again and you squirm minutely.

Your eyes sweep across the assembled, none of whom are looking at you; Yraena's parents are arriving now, and King Thrain is giving a long, elaborate speech in their honor. You spot Saelle in the crowd, looking bored and not bothering to hide it.

You snap back to attention when the massive double doors open with a clank, and everyone cranes their necks to watch as two people walk inside, and you can see the vivid red of their hair from all the way in the back where you're standing.

As they approach, your vision sharpens. The woman—Yraena's mother—is bony and thin, with an elegantly sharp face and dark smoldering eyes. Her chin is tilted at an angle that makes it seem as if she's looking down at everyone in the room, her expression haughty and distant. Her husband, Yraena's father, on the other hand, looks jovial and pleasant, smiling at everyone who they pass. 

They reach the king and bow, and Yraena's father immediately detaches himself from his wife and hugs his daughter, and you can see her fighting tears as he pulls away, and he says something so only they can hear. She laughs, wiping her eyes. 

Her mother steps forward, and instead of embracing her daughter after seeing her after so long, she folds her arms, sniffing disdainfully. "Not changed a bit, I see," she says, her voice cold. Yraena shrinks visibly, her face going still. "I expected _some_ good to come out of this beside ridding our halls of an inadequate princess, but apparently not." She turns around in a swirl of skirts, and you blink as she turns to Frerin, who narrows his eyes.

"Prince Frerin?" she asks, and he nods, slipping his hand into Yraena's behind her skirts so that her mother can't see. Her mother smiles a razor blade smile. "Lovely to meet you, dear," she says, patting his cheek. "I'm sure you'll be a charming new member to our house." She walks over to you and Thorin, and he grips your arm a little more tightly.

"Princess Y/N, and Prince Thorin, if I'm not mistaken?" she asks. You both nod. She nods back. "I see. I look forward to getting to know all of you." She sweeps away, leaving you both bewildered. She moves back to her daughter, who moves back slightly. Her mother notices, though, and sneers. "A coward then, and a coward now," she hisses, quietly enough for only the four of you to hear. She flinches imperceptibly. 

Thrain says more words of welcome and all, and then announces dinner, after which everyone disperses, talking amongst themselves. You turn to Thorin and shake your head, and he looks back at you, seemingly at a loss. 

As the crowd moves away, you manage to grab Yraena. "Hey," you say. She smiles tiredly. "Hey," she sighs.

"Keep up, child," snaps a voice, and her mother swoops out of thin air, her thin fingers encircling her daughter's arm hard enough to bruise. "Don't disappoint me time after time." She stalks away, not even glancing at you as she goes.

"Yraena—how can you let her talk to you like that?" you whisper. "She's your mother."

Yraena's lower lip wobbles, then steadies. She sighs. "Exactly," she whispers. "She's my mother. That means I have to make her proud. I have to do what she tells me. I have to listen to her."

"Was it like this when you were little, too?"

She exhales, looking down. "Ever—ever since I can remember. I was always the disappointment, the liability, the disgrace to our house. My brothers are the apples of her eye, but I will always be her biggest failure."

"But you're such an amazing princess. And—and I can't imagine why she thinks of you like that. If I had a daughter like you, you'd be everything I ever wished for."

She smiles at you. "That's very kind of you to say," she says. "But my mother doesn't think so."

"What about your father?"

She brightens. "My father was the balm to her barbs," she says. "He still is. I—I don't think I could have managed to come so far without him."

You try to imagine growing up like that, so oppressed and constantly put down. Sort of like being raised by Lady Hisa. Except Yraena has managed not to grow bitter and angry, which is remarkable. 

"Yraena..." 

"Don't," she says, shaking her head. "Don't feel bad for me. Mahal placed me here because He has a plan for me. This is my obstacle. Everyone has their own, and I need to learn how to live with it and defeat it. Don't pity me."

She puts her hand on your shoulder and then turns and leaves. She's halfway across the room when you see Frerin catch up to her, taking her hand. You see him talking agitatedly, and she shakes her head. He nods and lifts her hand to his lips, and you see her smile from across the room. You turn away, your mind roiling.

"I see you've met Lady Marena," says a voice, and you turn to see Saelle standing at your shoulder, wearing a small smirk. When you frown, she says, "Yraena's mother."

"Oh," you sigh. "Yes, I suppose, if you could call it meeting."

"She's perfectly affable to everyone but her daughter," she says. "When they're in the same room she can be vicious." She sighs, eyeing her from across the room. "She even talked to me, told me I was a perfect sweetheart and I was a total gem as compared to her daughter." She snorts, shaking her head. "What a bitch."

You hide a grin. She nods at you. "I'd get used to her, if I were you. She'll treat you like a precious thing and she'll treat Yraena like trash. Just try not to slap her, okay?" With that, she sashays away, sneering at whoever looks at her for longer than they're supposed to. You feel a sort of grudging admiration for her as she leaves. Maybe Saelle isn't so bad after all.

Dinner is a total nightmare. Marena doesn't even acknowledge Yraena, and talks to you instead, and you find yourself trying not to snap at her. Yraena is speaking with her father and Frerin in low tones, but you're relieved to see she's smiling. 

Once Marena turns away from you to stalk some other poor, unsuspecting girl, Thorin puts a hand on your knee under the table. "Are you all right?"

You realize you've been gripping your fork so hard your skin is abraded with marks. You loosen your hold on the metal item, letting it fall into your plate with a clatter. "Fine. I'm fine."

His hand doesn't move from your knee. "Are you sure? You look like you've swallowed a spoonful of salt."

You tone down the glare. "Sorry, it's just—" You sigh. "Yraena's mother... She's so... She isn't a very great mother, or a great person either. I'm sure you've noticed."

You both look over to where she's sitting, and you hear her say loudly, "Lovely as always, my dear, so much more poised and elegant than Yraena was when she was your age."

You grit your teeth. Thorin's hand tightens on your leg. "I did notice," he says mildly. "And her brothers are here too, if you didn't see them."

"Where?" You look around, bewildered. He nods at a corner, where you see three little boys at a table, all with fizzy red hair and wide smiles, about Fíli's age. Speaking of, Fíli and Kíli are sitting with them, and all five of them are giggling and smearing cake everywhere. You have to smile.

"It's just horrible," you say, turning to him. "She's horrible."

"When will we stop having to deal with jealous old mothers?" sighs Thorin. "Promise me you'll never turn out like that."

You laugh. "I'll try my best. No promises, though."

"Well, something is better than nothing." His fingers tap an idle, random tattoo on your leg as he looks around. You try to ignore it and eat, but a few minutes later you brush his hand off like an irritating spider. "Hands off," you mutter. "I'm trying to eat."

"Am I distracting you?" he asks artlessly. 

"Maybe." You wave your fork with a flourish and continue eating. He grins at you, and you blush even if you're not looking at him. You hate blushing. Especially around Thorin.

You hear the swish of fabric and then Dís stops behind you, wearing a resplendent gown of royal blue lace and a scowl. "Honestly, how many of these ridiculous old women do we have to deal with?" she hisses, echoing Thorin's earlier words. "It's getting on my nerves. She even told me what a beautiful woman I am and how Yraena could never hope to be like me."

"What did you tell her?" asks Thorin.

"I told her that with any luck she would be nothing like me, and I said she'd be much better than I am. I told her what a sweet, kind, strong girl her daughter is and that she must be so proud of her."

You and Thorin look at each other, then away, both with your brows raised. "And?" you prompt.

"And she just mumbled some polite nonsense and excused herself as fast as she could. Would it kill her to acknowledge that her daughter is a wonderful girl? Really, the sweetest people have the worst luck." 

She harrumphs and stomps away, muttering to herself.

"Ever the diplomat, isn't she?" sighs Thorin.

"The veriest," you say, leaning back. 

"She won't have much patience with Marena," says Thorin, nodding. "I'd expect frequent shouting and even more frequent tantrums."

You laugh. "I already am. It's going to be a nightmare till the wedding."

He exhales. "We'll get through it."

You raise your glass of water, your elbow on the table. "To surviving till the wedding."

His lips curve into a half-smile. He raises his glass too. "To surviving till the wedding." 

You clink your glasses and drink.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Love makes liars of us all."_
> 
> _–Cassandra Clare_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IT TOOK SO LONG.  
> I am so sorry, firstly. No excuses. I had a lot going on and this is really feeble but whatever.   
> Secondly, hope you like this chapter, which was hastily written, as you can probably tell.

The moment you walk into breakfast the next morning, three flaming red blurs come streaking towards you, resolving them into the figures of Yraena's little brothers. They grin identical grins, and the one on the left has a gap between his front teeth. They look like little cherubs.

"See," hisses the one on the middle, looking at his brother on his right. He smiles smugly. "I told you she was pretty." He looks at you and offers you a blindingly cute smile. "I saw you at the thing yesterday!" he says happily. "I'm Karv."

"Hello, Karv." You grin, squatting in front of him and shaking his little hand. "I'm Y/N." 

He blushes, giggling. "Are you my sister's friend?"

"I am. I'll be her sister-in-law in a few weeks," you say. "That means we'll be related then."

His eyes widen. "Really?"

"Really."

"Does that mean you'll come visit our house?" he asks. "We live very far away from this Mountain, it took us two weeks to come!"

"Wow, that's a long time," you say. "What did you do on the way?"

He answers in rapid-fire style. "We played around the caravans and swam in the rivers and visited the towns and villages and cities and we skipped stones in the lakes and we played with the birds and it was fun!" 

Your head spins. "That's... a lot of things."

"It is," says another brother solemnly. "We were also helping Adad with the directions."

"But do you know how to get here?"

He frowns. "No."

You laugh and pat his head, standing and making your way to the breakfast table, seating yourself next to Frerin, who's scowling like a thundercloud.

You bump his elbow with yours, reaching past him to grab the tureen of salad. "What's the matter?"

His scowl darkens. " _She's_ the matter," he mutters, glancing over at Marena. "I don't know how I'll last a month living with her, I'll go mad."

"I know," you sigh, sitting back. "It grated on my nerves yesterday."

"And to think Yraena lived with that for so long," he says, shaking his head. "It's sort of an open secret now, I suppose. I mean, she's not subtle or anything, is she?"

You snort. "Not by a long shot." You look over at him. "Is she okay? After yesterday."

"She said she was fine. She didn't look fine, but she insisted I leave it alone. How could I, though? It was horrible." He looks away, his throat working. You put a gentle hand on his elbow, and he relaxes slightly. "I just—I love her. More than... More than anything. And seeing her hurt... It makes me want to do something. To help her."

You stay quiet, mulling his words over in your mind. He loves her... And he said it like he meant it. "I know," you say quietly. "I know it can get frustrating when you can't do anything to help someone you—someone you care about, and I get it. But she's right. This is her battle, and she has to fight it. We can't intervene."

He laughs a little, ruffling your hair as best as he can without messing it up. "Wise girl," he chuckles. "I should call for your advice more often."

You self-consciously pat your hair. "The day I'm wise is the day you're careful."

"Which is... never?"

You laugh. "Basically."

He sobers. "But... Really, I wish I could help somehow. Dís will probably go mad before long, though. She can't stand people like that, people who refuse to see the worth of another just for something as stupid as being her mother and never being satisfied or whatever the reason is for her to act like that."

"I wonder why she is like that, though," you muse aloud. "I mean, shouldn't she absolutely adore Yraena, since she's her firstborn daughter? Isn't that what mothers usually do?"

He shrugs. "No idea. But father favors none of us. He doesn't hate any of us either, so it's a pretty fair balance."

You look down. "If I had siblings, I could chime in, too. But..."

"No siblings to speak of?" When you shake your head, he smiles at you. "Well, you have us—me and Dís. We're your family now, and you're our sister." He gives you a sideways hug with one arm, squeezing you. For some reason your eyes well up, and you blink the tears away furiously. "Thank you, Frerin."

"That also," he goes on, "gives me the right to poke fun at you, which is always a bonus—" He snatches a tart from your plate and pops it into his mouth, nodding appreciatively. "Strawberry. Good selection."

"Hey!" You swat his arm. "I was saving that!" You snatch a tart from his own plate and eat it for good measure. 

He grins at you. "You're learning."

You scoff as best as you can whilst chewing. "Blueberry. Excellent selection."

He winks. "I thought the color would appeal to you. Since it's the color of a certain pair of eyes..." His voice drips with implication, and you roll your eyes, trying not to blush. "Very mature, Frerin."

"Well, I have a right to know if you've—I don't know, if you've seen my brother naked or whatever. You know, it's sort of a thing. I should know that, right?"

"Well..." You pretend to think. "There are some very interesting things I could tell you. Should I go into the details, or...?"

He chokes on his tart.

+++

"What's this for?"

You pick up a shimmering gown that's draped on the bed, holding it up. It catches the light, glinting like stars. It's pale pink, set with diamond like stones. It's pretty, beautiful even, like all the others. This one is more sheer, though, and ever so slightly scandalous. 

Lyvya looks up from where she's closing the curtains. "That's your dress for tonight, miss."

You sigh. "Another party?"

"I'm afraid so, miss. There'll be one every night until the wedding, give or take." She walks up to you, taking the dress from you gently and steering you towards the bathroom. "Get ready, miss, this one is important. It's only the royal families. Nobody else."

"Really?" You frown as she starts to unlace your dress. "Great. Family bonding time. This'll be fun."

"Miss Y/N," she chides in a singsong voice. "Sarcasm."

"Right, sorry." 

She finishes getting your dress off and primly wheels a Chinese screen between the bathtub and the rest of the bathroom as you finish stripping down and get into the he tub. You sigh deeply as the hot water leaches the tension out of your limbs, and you stay in the water till it gets warm, then slightly cold. You dry yourself off and step out, reaching for another corset.

"Oh no, not for this one, miss," says Lyvya, holding up the sparkling dress. "This doesn't need a corset."

You blink, flummoxed. You've been wearing a corset for so long every day that not wearing one seems... improper, somehow. "Is that allowed?"

She smiles a little, coming up behind you with the dress in hand. "I daresay it is, for some cases," she says. "This is a special favorite of mine, this dress. You'll look wonderful in it, I'm sure."

You close your eyes while she dresses you in it, and the fabric inside is silken, like satin, and smooth as butter, comfortable and light. The dress feels a little tight as well, but you say nothing of it. The skirt swirls around your feet, like mist. 

"Eyes open, miss Y/N," she instructs, and you dutifully open your eyes as she draws a neat black line along the line of your eyelashes, then another under, then comes powder, and blush, and lipstick... 

"I hate makeup," you say as she withdraws at last. "I feel like itching my face off."

"This is hardly talk from a woman who's been wearing it every day for the past three months," says Lyvya reproachfully. "You look lovely."

"I look—" You glance in the mirror and stop dead. It looks like a dress you could find at home, like something... modern. It molds to your body, with thin bejeweled straps holding it up. A knee-high slit shows off your legs, and the bodice is encrusted with gems. The skirt is plain, but pleated and airy, pale pink. 

"See?" says Lyvya happily. "Oh, miss, you're a vision!" She takes your hands and spins you around the room, both of you giggling. "I'm sure the prince won't be able to take his eyes off you," she gushes.

You blush. "Oh, stop it."

She laughs. "Let me get your hair done, miss, then you can go."

After what feels like fifty bobby pins and a few thousand braids and twists, Lyvya finishes your hair and you're steered from the room. "Remember, this is very important," she says in a hushed voice as she herds you along the corridor. "Today you make your reputation in front of the princess' parents."

"What if I don't want a reputation?" you hiss.

"Well, you'll get one anyway," she hisses back. "You must be polite, and charming, and docile."

"But Yraena's mother is such a—"

"Is doesn't matter!" She shakes her head vigorously. "You must keep a level head."

"Fine." You sigh moodily.

"That's the spirit," she mutters, and pushes you towards a door. "This way. And remember, chin up, smile, don't let them push you down." She drops a small kiss onto your cheek, and then she's gone, slipping through a small door to the left and disappearing from sight.

"Showtime," you sigh to yourself, and you push the doors open.

The light blinds you for a good three or four seconds, and then your eyes adjust, and you blink a few times, and the hall comes into focus. It's the smaller hall, more suited to these sort of dinners, with very few people. Everyone seems to be there already, and you quickly make a beeline for Yraena, who's talking to her father. 

"Sorry I'm late," you say breezily, giving her arm a friendly squeeze. She turns her head to smile at you, her black eyes glittering. "It's no problem at all," she says. "Y/N, I'd like you to meet my father, Aethan of the Firebeard clan."

"It's a pleasure," you say, extending a hand. He smiles and takes it, and you shake. His skin is warm, and so is his expression. "Likewise, princess Y/N. I've heard a lot about you from Yraena. I was most curious about you."

"Everyone is," you say, trying to smile. Then you quirk a brow. "I hope you've heard good things about me from your daughter?"

He laughs. "Fret not, she's been most kind."

"I don't have to fret about that." You grin at her and she waves you off. "Oh, stop it!" 

Aethan smiles at you. "Yraena, if you dint mind, I'll be borrowing your friend here for a moment or two." He looks at you. "I hope that's all right?"

"Of course," you say, and after Yraena nods and heads over to Frerin, the two of you start walking. "So, princess Y/N," he says conversationally. "How long have you known my daughter?"

You lift a shoulder. "About three months or so. I met her the day we both took our vows."

"I see. It doesn't always work, does it, an arranged marriage?" He sighs. "They may not choose the right person for you."

"Sometimes they might," you say, a little sadly.

"Ah, then you are very, very lucky." He smiles at you again. "And so is my daughter. Others may not have such luck."

"Others like..."

"Well, take me, for instance." His mouth thins. "The extent to which a marriage can be loveless is limitless. I've met countless other royal couples with no feelings for each other. I'm sure you've heard of having a consort?"

You look at him, startled. "I—yes, but I thought it was frowned down upon—"

"Because marriage to dwarves is a sacred thing. Not so much as the ceremony itself, or the vows—words can lie, after all—but the act, the intimacy achieved, both physical and mental, is the most important thing for us." He pauses. "Are you familiar with the concept of having a One?"

"A... what?"

"I think you might call it a soulmate. Someone who was made for you, someone who's soul is crafted with yours. Someone you may never find."

You blink. "I've never heard of this."

"It is no longer believed, naturally—if it were, then I would not be here now." He smiles sadly. "Though this marriage did yield me four beautiful children. For that I am grateful."

"So you may never find your... soulmate? Your One?"

"Some say the concept no longer exists. They say it never did. But I... I say give it a chance. Believe that there is someone out there meant for you, made for you, waiting for you. Find them. And stay with them for the rest of your life lest you never find happiness again."

You make a mental note to ask Faryn about this. "That's... sweet, in a really sad way."

"I agree." His gaze strays to his wife, who cuts him a look that's a flash of her eyes. He sighs, and looks at you. "Well, it was lovely speaking with you, princess," he says. He manages to smile at you one last time. "You look lovely, by the way."

"Thank you." You try to pour as much gratitude as possible into those two syllables, but when you smile back, it's more melancholy than not. You watch him walk away towards his wife, and you turn away, filled with bitterness suddenly.

Dinner passes in about half an hour, and after everyone goes off in different directions to mingle, you pluck a flute of champagne from a table nearby and sip it absently, leaning against the wall. You finish the glass and set it down, and after a moment's hesitation, pick up another one. A pleasant buzz starts up in your stomach as you finish that one as well.

"You should be socializing." Thorin materializes next to you, arms folded and eyes sweeping across the room. You sniff and turn away, picking up another glass. 

"I spoke with Aethan and Yraena," you say. "That should be enough."

"Hardly." He looks over at you, seeming to hesitate. Finally he blurts, "You look beautiful."

You bite your lip, uncaring about lipstick. "Thanks. You don't look too bad yourself." It's a gross understatement; he looks polished and handsome in dark blue and silver, and the word you'd like to employ is _gorgeous_ , but you can hardly say that aloud. 

You finish off your third glass, and you're definitely feeling a little woozy, but you decide not to care. You reach for a fourth, almost blindly. 

"It's disgusting, isn't it," he sighs, glancing around. "The hierarchy within the hierarchy."

The champagne trails a burning path down your throat, lighting your nerves on fire. "It's the way this world works. It sits on a bedrock of lies."

He says nothing. "And in this sort of setup," you go on, "nobody gets what they want. Only what everyone else wants. How are you the master of your own fate if everyone else decides your future for you?" 

Your words are ever so slightly slurred. He doesn't seem to notice, though, and his eyes turn stormy. "You're not," he says softly.

"And sometimes you can't even choose who you're going to spend the rest of your life with." You drain the forth glass, fingers reaching for a fifth. You lift it to your lips, and the bite of alcohol slows your thinking, making everything around you slower, more sluggish. Thorin looks blurred around the edges, and he seems to give off light, radiating brightness. You blink, but it doesn't subside. 

"Aethan told me," you say, trying to keep your voice steady. "He told me about finding a One."

His gaze shifts. "What?"

"Someone made for you." Your unsteady fingers move towards the sixth glass. "A soulmate."

"Nobody believes in that anymore," he says quietly.

"Do you?"

He looks at you, and your cheeks flush, both from the intensity of his gaze and the effect of all the champagne. "I don't know," he says finally.

"That's not an answer."

"Yes, it is." You huff, finishing the sixth glass. Before you can reach for a seventh a hand stops yours. "I think you've had quite enough to drink," he murmurs in your ear, his breath hot against your skin. 

"Don't tell me what to do." You struggle in his grip, but he holds fast. Everything around you starts to blur, and fracture. "Y/N, stop it," he hisses. "You're drunk—"

"I am _not_ ," you say. Your voice is definitely slurred. "Let go, Thorin—"

"Come on, I'll take you to your room," he says, pulling you away. You struggle again. "Leave me alone," you hiss, stumbling. "I'm fine."

"I don't want to cause a scene," he bites out, dragging you away. "Come on."

"Leaving so soon?" 

You both stop abruptly as Marena steps in front of you, blocking your path. She smiles at you, not seeming to notice the deep flush on your cheeks or how crazed you look. "I hardly spoke to you all night!"

"Yes, but there's plenty of time for that," you say, trying not to sneer. You wrench your arm out of Thorin's grip and step forward, towards her. Her smile wavers but she hitches it back, holding her ground. "What about Yraena? You're going to leave after the ball and then never see her ever again. Shouldn't you... should I say... prioritize? Family comes first, always."

Her smile widens. "Are you not to be my family soon as well?"

"She's your daughter."

"And you will be soon, will you not? I would be honored—"

"And so would I," you cut in, almost rudely. She blinks, taken aback. "But I really would like to get to bed now," you go on. "If you wouldn't mind, that is."

"Mind? No, not at all," she says. "A lady needs her night's worth of sleep." After bidding you a hasty goodnight, she hurries off. 

You sway on your feet, unsteady. "That went well."

"You're hopeless." Thorin drags you out of the room and into the corridor, steering you forcefully towards your room. You put up a spectacular fight, cursing and stumbling, but he's too strong. "Just leave me alone," you say angrily, kicking his ankle. "Stop acting like I'm a child!"

"Then stop acting like a child," he hisses back. Your fist lands harmlessly on his chest in a weak attempt at a hit. The momentum pitches you forward and then you're falling... And then you're flying. No, not flying—Thorin holds you up, an arm sliding under your knees, the other across your back as he carries you bridal style, not breaking his stride. You go limp, feeling his heartbeat against your hand, which is splayed on his chest. Your head swims, and you float in half consciousness.

He deposits you at your door and you right yourself with an ungainly motion, gripping his arm. "You didn't have to bring me here." You sway, disoriented. "I could have walked on my own."

"And gotten lost or worse." He glares at you. 

"I know my way around, Your Highness." You glare right back. "I live here too, you know."

"I'm aware."

"Well—good." You spin around, heading to your door. His hands grip your shoulders gently and turn you around. "The other door," he says, arching a supercilious eyebrow. You make a face at him, nearly falling onto the door as you do. 

"I take it you've never been drunk," he says. He seems to be enjoying this immensely. Well, you're not. You say nothing, concentrating on how to hold the knob. There seems to be three of them. For some reason you find that absolutely hilarious.

You can't hold back a giggle, which turns into a chuckle, which turns into a fit of laughter, and then you're leaning on the door, breathless. There's a stitch in your side that hurts like hell, but you don't care. 

"What now?" he asks, annoyed. You laugh harder. "I don't know," you say breathlessly. "It's just so—so stupid. The door—" You erupt into a fresh peal of laughter. "The door!" you say, as if that's supposed to explain it. You laugh again.

He sighs. "Come on." He pushes your door open, guiding you inside. You smile wickedly up at him. "Are you taking me to bed, Thorin?" you ask. "Ooohhh, _scandalous_! What will they all say?" 

He says nothing, setting you on your bed. You bounce a little, and when he makes to step away you grab him back, with more force than you'd intended. He makes a startled sound as he falls forward, sprawling on top of you. He glares at you. "Y/N, I swear—"

"Just one little kiss. Please?" You smile angelically. He tries to pull himself up. "Not until you've drank some water. Now come on—"

"I don't want water." You wrap your arms around him. "You're so warm, and so gorgeous, and so... so... I don't know." You lean forward, your teeth closing on his lower lip. He tastes like heat and male and Thorin. Your lips press against his, chasing the spicy taste of him, your tongue flicking over his lips. His hands claw at your waist, yanking you closer with a ferocious movement, and then you're both sprawling on the bed, your hands creeping under his shirt to the warm skin beneath, and his own hands freeing your hair and letting it spill through his fingers in loose waves. 

"We need to stop," he groans as your nails scratch along his chest, and you spin in a dizzy state of drunk semiconsciousness, your thoughts all jumbled and misplaced, like you can't grip at anything. "I don't want to stop." Your head dips, your lips pressing to the fluttering pulse in his throat. His hands tighten bruisingly on your hips as he gasps. "Y/N, you're drunk—"

"Stop saying that." You lift your head, annoyed. "Well, you are," he says, pulling you up. You sling both your legs around his waist, sitting up on his lap with your hands locked on his shoulders. "I'm not that drunk," you protest, your knees tightening around his legs.

"I am not doing anything with you when you're drunk," he informs you. "What's the point when you can't remember anything in the morning?" His eyes spark. 

"Isn't that the point?" You lean forward to get another kiss but he dodges you easily. "How proper of you, _my prince_." You allow sarcasm to drip off the title. "I also heard from Aethan that we're not supposed to... you know... until the wedding night." 

"How does that end up cropping up in a conversation?" he murmurs, cracking a tiny smile. You shake your hair back, making a face. "It just came up, okay? I must admit I was sorely disappointed." You try for a devilish smirk. 

"Oh?" A smirk curls his lips as well. "Mmm," you say in reply, leaning in. This time he doesn't back away, and your faces are millimeters apart. "Very disappointed indeed," you breathe, and lazy blue eyes meet yours. You feel his breaths on your lips. "I think it's time you got to bed," he says softly, and just like that he dislodges you from his lap, standing as you splutter indignantly. "But—but you—"

"No buts," he says imperiously, pushing you back onto the bed. "Sleep. You'll have a hell of a hangover tomorrow morning, so sleep tight."

"You're not going, are you?" It sounds childish, but you don't care. His eyes soften, and he presses a chaste kiss to your fingers. "No, I won't go."

You sink into the blankets, sighing. "Stay with me," you whisper, and he sits next to you on the bed and whispers some thing back, running the fine silk strands of your hair between his fingers soothingly, but you don't hear it, and you don't even remember falling asleep.

+++

_Rain lashes around you, pouring down on the earth, soaking it. The trees sway and groan in the wind, and as you watch, lightning forks across the black sky, illuminating the land around you for a brief second._

_The cliff is behind you._

_This time it seems closer, and the light below seems brighter, wider. The howling wind pushes you backwards, closer to the lip of the cliff. You can almost feel the darkness like a living thing, something that threatens to engulf you like the waters of a black sea._

_"Here again," says the voice, and it's so familiar, yet so alien. You turn around, but there's nothing. "You're not ready," it whispers. "Why have you come?"_

_The answer springs to your lips so readily you wonder if you've known it all along. "I came here to ask you something."_

_The wind solidifies, forming that achingly familiar, beautiful figure. It blinks eyes made of wisps of air. "There are things I cannot tell you."_

_"Why am I here?" You gesture to the space around you, stepping forward, towards the figure. It doesn't move. "Who sent me here?"_

_"I did," whispers the figure. "It was my call that brought you here."_

_"Who are you?"_

_"I am yours," whispers the voice, and the wind presses up against your body, a familiar weight, a familiar touch, intimate and heady. Your head spins. "And only when you give everything to me you can see, you can understand."_

_"What must I do?" you cry, the wind slithering around you. "Tell me!"_

_"You must wait," the voice murmurs, softly. "You must wait, and you must realize. When the deed is done the light can enter you."_

_"What light?"_

_"So many questions." The voice sounds almost amused. "The light of understanding. Of knowledge."_

_The world starts to dissolve, coming apart around you. "Wait, don't leave!" you gasp, clutching at the wind, but it dissolves between your fingers with a last whisper. "Stay with me," you say, and the wind whispers back, "Forever." It's the last thing you hear before the world plunges into darkness._

+++

Light stabs into your closed eyelids and you groan, turning over, burying your face into the downy pillows. Your head throbs with every pulse of your heartbeat, and your mouth feels like a scorpion's nest. In short, you feel terrible.

You peel your eyes open slowly, wincing as you do. You sit up, holding your head in your hands, drawing your knees up. It's only then that you realize you're still wearing your fancy party dress, now wrinkled and creased beyond repair. Your hair is loose, falling around your shoulders loosely. You try to remember what happened last night, with little success. The last thing you remember is dinner. 

Dinner, and the dream.

You sit up straight, mind racing as you desperately try to recall what happened in the dream, but you remember even less than what happened at the party. You sigh, massaging your temples with the tips of your fingers. _"You'll have a hell of a hangover tomorrow morning, so sleep tight,"_ says a voice in your head. You frown. Where did that memory come from? 

It smashes into you like a truck, and you gasp with the force of it. Memories come rushing back into your brain, like a video on fast-forward. Glasses of bubbling gold liquid, talking to Thorin, talking to Marena, coming back to your room—and oh, God, what had you been thinking? Of all the things you had to do while drunk, it was practically fall all over him.

You swing your legs out of bed, lurching to the bathroom as nausea rises in your throat. You vow silently then and there never to consume a drop of alcohol ever again. Your throat burns as you retch, coughing, your eyes streaming. The high isn't worth this terrible discomfort, you think as you continue retching. And had you really called Thorin gorgeous... _aloud_? You groan, standing on shaky legs as you stagger into the shower and turn the spigot. 

A jet of freezing water hits you in the face, drenching you instantly, dress and all. You yelp but don't move, wrapping your arms around your middle and watching as sparkling drops drip off your hair. You start shivering a few minutes later, goosebumps rising along your arms and legs. You spin the nozzle, waiting not-so patiently as the water turns lukewarm, then warm, then pleasant, then hot, then boiling. You stay under the steaming water, sighing as it washes away the cold. You don't feel amazing, but at least your headache is gone.

You step out of the shower, still dripping wet, and have to brush your teeth three times before the nasty taste goes away. Just as you're unzipping your dress, there's a knock at the door.

You hesitate, looking down at yourself. The dress is transparent now, and it was already tight. But since it's probably Lyvya, it doesn't matter. Even if it's Yraena it doesn't matter. But if it's someone else... 

"Who is it?" you call, moving towards the door warily. 

"It's Lyvya, miss," calls her voice. 

You open the door a crack. "Hi."

Her eyes widen. "Miss Y/N, you look a mess!" she exclaims, shouldering her way into the bathroom. She stares at you, and your sopping dress and messy hair and ruined makeup, her mouth open. 

"I know," you say, sighing. "What on earth happened?" she demands, grabbing a towel and starting to dry your hair. "I had a little too much to drink last night," you say as she stands on tiptoe to reach your hair. She stills a little. 

"I'm not in the mood for a lecture," you sigh, moving away and ruffling your slightly more dry hair. Then you realize she's looking at the door. "Someone knocked," she says, moving towards it. Before you can say anything, she opens it. 

She squeaks at the sight of Thorin, who's standing at the door with his hands in his pockets and his eyebrows raised. "Oh, go away," you groan, turning your back on him. "I don't want to hear you gloat, I already have a headache."

"I wasn't going to gloat," he says, and you can see him smiling in the mirror. "Lyvya, I'll see you later," you say, and she gives a hurried curtsy and scampers off. You remain with your back to him, uncaring that the dress is mostly unzipped, hanging off your back. 

"Well? If you're going to scold me, do it now." There's a tap on your back and you turn mostly out of reflex, looking up into eyes bluer than the hottest flame. "I don't think I need to scold you," he says, and you blush. "Why not?"

"Because it looks like you've learned your lesson." His finger traces your cheek, wiping off a smear of mascara. You try to stay still. "You're right. I'm never drinking again. It's not worth it. It's so embarrassing—"

"So you remember?"

Your face flushes under his fingers. "I didn't say that."

The tiniest of tiny smiles crosses his face. "It was implied."

You wince. "I'm so sorry—"

"For what? It's often said that people tell the truth when they're drunk."

"I'm such an idiot—"

"You don't have to blame yourself."

"And I said all sorts of horrible things—"

"Y/N—"

"I mean, it's not like you're _not_ gorgeous, but—"

He puts a finger on your lips. "Shh," he says, and you quiet down. "Stop driveling. Everyone gets drunk once in their lives. You don't have to be so..." He gestures vaguely. 

"Right. But it's still embarrassing." You pause. "I wonder how it'd be if you got drunk."

He arches a brow. "Believe me, you don't want to know."

"Don't I?" You grin at him. "I should get you drunk once. Just to return the favor."

"Feel free to put yourself in mortal danger." 

"Mortal danger?" You smile slyly, your fingers trailing up his arms. "Ooh, sounds dangerous. What could that possibly mean?"

His fingers wrap around your wrists and he leans forward, his lips at your ear. "I mean that the only thing holding me back from you is my self-control. And without that..." His already impossibly deep voice drops another octave and you shiver, your cheeks burning. _Oh._

He draws away slightly, and you blush again. "That could be... interesting," you whisper, your lip catching on your teeth. His eyes track the movement and your blush deepens. "Depending on your perspective," you babble on. "I mean, I wouldn't say no or anything like that, just, I... I..." You swallow thickly. "Oh, God. Sorry. I'm such a mess." 

He smiles a bit, dropping a small, sweet little kiss onto the tip of your nose. "No, you're not," he says. "You should get cleaned up before breakfast. Everyone will be waiting." 

He moves to leave, and your lips burn to say something. Just as he steps out you panic. "Thorin!"

He stops and turns, and for some reason you can't explain you rush towards him and throw your arms around him, holding him tightly. He seems startled for half a moment, then holds you back, seemingly uncaring about the fact that you're dripping wet and getting water all over his clothes. 

You draw away suddenly, embarrassed. "Sorry, I... sort of panicked, I don't know why."

You make a startled little sound as he kisses you hard, so suddenly your head spins. It's still spinning when he draws away, and you melt into him, sighing like a furnace. "When will you stop apologizing for everything?" he murmurs, and you nestle into his chest. "You're just going to have to deal with it."

You feel his laugh. "I suppose I will."

+++

"Another dream? Tell me everything," demands Faryn. "From top to bottom."

"It's like the last one," you say, sitting back. "I don't remember anything. But this time it was raining, and the light seemed closer."

"A hint," he says. "What did you ask? Remember, try to remember!" He takes your hand in both of his, pleading with his iridescent eyes. He can really pull off the big blue eyes thing. 

"I asked the person questions, I think. And they didn't really answer." You think hard. "They said they couldn't, I think. And they..."

"Yes?" His quill is poised at the top of the page. 

"They said they brought me here."

He grins widely. "Perfect. Now, tell me. Was it male?"

You bite your lip. "I—yes, it was."

"Remember, Y/N, you need to be sure."

"I'm sure," you say firmly. 

He scribbles something. "Excellent. Did he ask you anything?"

"I don't remember," you say. 

He's grinning in earnest now. "This is all I needed."

"You know who brought me here?" You sit up, nearly sending a stack of books flying. 

"I know _what_ brought you here. I just have to be sure. Give me a few more weeks... when is your wedding?"

The randomness of the question catches you off guard. "My wedding? A—a couple of months."

"Hmm. Well, give it a few weeks and I'll have cracked it entirely." He smiles. "I thought it was this, but the theory was much too loose. This, though, is something huge. I could work wonders with this."

You frown. "What brought me here?"

"Something very old, very powerful and very discreet. Something we don't see today." He smiles smugly. "Something I thought was dead."

"Is it... a living thing?"

"Some might say yes. I say no, but... It's odd, and it's also the only thing. This confirms it. Now, you say it was raining. Did the wind touch you again? Did you feel anything on your face?"

"I don't remember all that, Faryn."

"What happened the night nefore?"

You blush deeply. "About that..."

His eyes nearly pop out. "Wait, you didn't..."

"I was sort of drunk."

He gapes at you. "Wait... you didn't... do anything, did you?"

"What? No! I just slept." 

He relaxes. "I see. Good. Okay, then." He waves his papers. "I must research now," he announces. "Go on, shoo."

"What are you not telling me, Faryn?" you ask as you make to leave. His grin is a slash. "You'll find out soon enough," he says. "Patience is a virtue."


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"People fall in love in mysterious ways; maybe it's all part of a plan."_
> 
> _–Ed Sheeran_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay, my test is done. :D Here's the next chapter, and hope you all like it! Do drop a review, they make me very happy. <3

"My apologies, Y/N," says a voice, and you jump slightly, turning to see Aethan next to you, smiling kindly over your breakfast plates. "I vanished rather abruptly all those nights ago at the dinner party."

"There's really no need to apologize," you say, offering him a smile in return. "I understand you're busy, and after all, I think you did have a more important place to be."

"That is a matter of perspective," he says with a tinkling laugh. "Or what your definition of the word 'important' is."

"I'm sure it was... important, that is. Marena certainly made it seem so."

"Ah, Marena makes everything seem more dramatic than it really is. She's a headstrong woman," he sighs, "but a fine queen."

You shrug coldly. "Yraena will make a queen just as fine." _If not more so._

"She will." He smiles genially. "I don't know if she's told you," he says, "but ever since she was a little thing all she's wanted was to settle down somewhere and open a bakery."

"She did tell me," you say, surprised. 

"And what a baker she would have made." He laughs. "It was part of the reason her and her mother disagreed so much." His smile fades slightly. "Marena only wanted her daughter to be a princess, and nothing more. Yraena thought being a princess had a little more to it than usually meets the eye."

"It should," you say, thinking of your own life outside of your duties. "It is, I mean."

"It is," he agrees. "But Marena wanted—wants, that is—her daughter to be like her. Filling the mold of the perfect queen, and that means not being able to balance anything else besides those duties."

"But that's not how Dís is," you say. "Or how I am, or Yraena is now."

"It is what she tried to tell her, but the advice fell upon deaf ears." He shakes his head. "Some people fear change," he says quietly. "They look only at what they have seen countless times, and their eyes skip right over something they have never seen before."

You look down at your plate, your breath catching. "Aethan," you say, "I wanted to ask you something."

"Ask away, my dear." He looks at you.

"If... if things don't work out, before the wedding..." You swallow. "Will Yraena have to go back home?"

His eyes turn stormy, and his easy smile fades. He doesn't look at you. "I don't know," he says quietly. "But if things go especially wrong, then I think she will have to leave."

"Frerin loves her," you blurt, for some reason. "I—he told me, the other day."

He looks at you curiously. "Did he?"

You nod, looking away, blushing suddenly. "I—it would destroy them both if she left," you say. "And she's my best friend. If she has to go... the House of Durin will lose a true queen."

He doesn't look away from you. "I understand," he says softly. "I know. But in this battle of wills I have no say." He looks over at his wife. "We will have to wait and see."

"The wedding is in a few weeks," you say, biting your lip. "I just... This is hardly talk for the breakfast table, but I'm just so scared something will happen."

"I don't blame you, Y/N," he says in a low voice. "Even I find myself worrying more every day. But I'm sure things will pull through. Do not let this pull you down. Not while there is still hope."

You look across the room and catch Thorin's eye, and he looks at you not without concern, his eyebrows drawing together in an unmistakeable question. You give a small shake of your head. _Not now. Later._ You turn back to Aethan, and you're just about to say something when a voice interrupts you. 

"Princess Y/N," says Marena, seating herself elegantly next to you. "We hardly spoke the other night—"

"Yes, I'm sorry to say I was feeling a bit unwell," you say tightly. "I had to leave early."

"Nothing serious, I hope?" She smiles. You clench your teeth. "No."

"I was hoping to speak with you," she says. 

"Oh?" you say coldly. 

"Yes." She peers at you incessantly. "I must admit I overheard a small bit of your conversation with my husband just now," she says.

You raise an eyebrow. "Did you? My lady," you add afterwards as smoothly as you can. 

She nods, still staring at you. You feel Thorin's worried eyes on you as well, but determinedly don't look in his direction. "You mentioned something about my daughter."

You say nothing, sensing a trap being erected around you. "And her wedding," she goes on, smiling. There's nothing false about her smile, or her words of kindness. Saelle was right; she's perfectly nice to everyone else, and genuinely too, but when it comes to her daughter she's vicious. "I wanted to ask you how she is coping with the arrangement."

The words echo back from another memory, and Lady Hisa's question that so resembled this one. It sets you on edge, and you bristle, sitting up straight. "She's doing fine," you say. "She isn't having any trouble, as far as I can see."

"I was simply worried," she says, simpering. "She always was slightly weak when it came to this—"

"Well, your worry is misplaced," you cut in sharply. "She's doing fine. I'm sure her and Frerin will be very happy together, and she'll make a good queen."

"And I never meant to imply otherwise," sneers Marena. "But I am her mother, and I do know my daughter is not fit to hold such a position of importance now—"

"King Thrain is still on the throne," you say. "There is plenty of time for her to prepare."

"Be that as it may," she says. "I'm sure—"

"Would you look at the time," you say icily. "I'm afraid I need to attend a class now."

She looks thrown for a second, then smiles again. "Of course, I won't keep you," she says, and you stand and make your way out of the room, still avoiding Thorin's eye as you leave.

+++

You push the door to Faryn's office open, calling, "Faryn? I'm here."

"Y/N?" His voice floats down from the middle of the room. You head over to the sound, glancing around. It's messier than ever in the room, which is saying a lot—at its neatest it's a minefield of books and papers and quills. Now it's a veritable landfill. 

Faryn is sitting at his desk, which is heaped with papers and books and jumbled notes. He looks like he's been sitting there a week; there's ink staining his fingers, and a smear of the stuff on his cheek. His glasses are askew on his face, which is rough with stubble. His hair is tied back messily, and there are bags under his eyes.

He looks up at you and it seems to take him a moment or two to focus on you. "I see you've arrived," he mumbles, and he sweeps the clutter off a chair onto the floor, making room for you to sit, which you do, albeit gingerly. "Are you okay?" you ask tentatively. 

"What?" He frowns at you, adjusting his glasses so as to see you better. 

"You look a little... harried."

"Harried? No, no, I'm fine," he says, sounding very much harried. "I'm just busy. So many things to do..." He picks up a piece of paper from the desk and squints at it. So do you. Then your eyes widen as you recognize the precise symbols and equations and numbers. "Is that _math_?"

He looks at you. "Equations. Math, yes. Physics, mostly. Portals, warps in time... how can we prove they exist? This is the only way. Trying to find a sequence of the numbers so that they arrange themselves in a pattern that may explain why you are here. Though if my interpretation of your dream is correct, physics cannot help me here."

"What's your interpretation?" You rest your elbows on the desk and lean forward. He tweaks your nose gently. "That is for me to know and for you to find out," is all he says. "It's not science. Not anything rational at all. Not static. Dynamic. A force, but not a physical one."

"An emotional one?" Your interest piques. 

He raises a mysterious eyebrow. "Perhaps. I'm still trying to develop the mathematics, but I can't seem to get past this point." He holds the page up, which is crammed with equations and symbols and numbers. He points at a spot on the sheet, where the equation ends with a question mark. "It goes to infinity, which is impossible. There must be another factor... which I believe to be the force that pulled you here, which can't be possible, because it's not a physical quantity."

"What do you think it is?"

"I need to be sure," he says. "Only then I can tell you."

"Faryn?"

"Mmm?"

"What do you know about having a One?"

He looks up at you curiously. "Why?"

You shrug evasively. "Aethan mentioned it to me the other day. I wanted to tell you yesterday, but you were too busy."

He sighs, taking his glasses off. "Well, I don't really believe in such things, the existence of someone whose soul is made of the same thing yours is. They say Mahal made you together but separated you so that you'll be able to find each other in life, and ultimately in death. They said everyone has a One, but it's rare, very rare, that you'll ever find them."

"Does it exist? Is it... real?"

He shrugs. "We have no way of knowing for real. People who were in love, so much that they believed they were literally made for each other, they began these things according to me, but they say everyone is born with one, and so on."

He sits back. "Frankly, I think it's a horrible thing to believe. It sounds too good to be true, someone meant for you, someone who will love all of you, including the flaws, and reflect you perfectly, fit into your life perfectly... Isn't it false hope? It makes you feel empty, if you don't find them. Even if it may not be real. The belief is certainly real."

There's raw pain in his voice, and you glance at him curiously. He looks bitter, his eyes sad. "Don't believe in those things," he says. "It only lets you down in the end. Everyone does. You shouldn't trust love," he says. "It's never real. Nobody knows what love is."

"Faryn," you say gently, so quietly he doesn't seem to hear. "Having a One... If you feel like you've found them, then you're much luckier than the rest of us. And anyway, the concept is dead. If there was such thing as a soulmate, you wouldn't be engaged to Thorin."

You blink, surprised. "What do you mean?"

"I mean an arranged marriage. If you have a soulmate, too bad for them; you're going to get married to someone else, aren't you? Royalty all over the world, not just you. So the concept is looked over now. Nobody believes in it. And certainly not me, as I deal with facts, not stories."

"Faryn," you say quietly. "Have you ever... been with anyone like that?"

"Like what?"

"Like you've been in the dark all your life and you're with them and you feel like your eyes have opened at last," you say. "Like they say your name and nobody has ever said it like that. Like you're burning and freezing at the same time." Your voice sounds soft. 

His eyes lose focus. "Like they're pain and suffering and blood and also softness and healing and gentleness at the same time," he sighs. "Like they kill you every day but they bring you to life."

Your eyes flick up to his. "Exactly."

He looks away, and the bitterness is back. "Let's just say I've had too personal an experience with that feeling," he says. "But after that I only saw the pain and blood." He shakes his head. "There's nothing else left."

"Faryn... who?" you ask softly. 

He shakes his head again. "Y/N, don't," he says. "Don't make me say it."

"Did you... love them?"

"Her," he says. "And I thought I did. But it was all a lie." He slams his fist down onto the table, upsetting the pot of ink. It spills across his careful calculations, soaking the sheets. He sighs, rubbing his face with his hands. "It's just a lie."

"Faryn—"

"Don't, Y/N. It's over now."

"But it doesn't have to be. It's not always a lie. What happened?" When he doesn't say anything you put a gentle hand on his arm, taking it as encouragement when he doesn't shrug you off. "You can tell me," you say. "I know you haven't told anyone this, and it might help. Trust me."

He puts his face in his hands, and there's silence for a long time. Finally he begins, speaking through his fingers. "I was young. A fool, but still young. And I met her at one of those silly parties, like the ones you go to every day. I was as awkward as I am now, but she had a way of getting everyone to let their guards down. Every boy my age had their eyes on her, but somehow, she chose me." His voice is wistful. 

"For the first few months it was like a dream. I thought there would never be anyone else for me but her. She told me it was the same for her, and I thought it was real. And that was my worst mistake. I believed in her, in love, and I thought I knew what is was, to be in love, and for a time, I did." He shakes his head. "But it wasn't real. It never was."

"What happened?" Your voice is impossibly gentle.

"She left. Not the way you might think—she got a job in the Iron Hills, and she had to leave." He rubs his eyes. "She told me it wouldn't matter how far away she was, she'd still love me. And she went away. For the first year it was fine. We wrote to each other every day, and I found she was right; it didn't matter how far away we were from each other. But then I began to realize that I wrote to her, but she never wrote to me. To see if she would notice, I stopped writing, and that was it. I never got a letter back."

He sighs. "And then she came back, for a diplomatic visit. I hardly recognized her, and she me. I tried to bridge the gap that was obviously too big to bridge, but she had forgotten me. She went back, and I still tried. But it was fruitless. Eventually I gave up. Next time I heard from her she was engaged to another."

He sets his palm on the table, closing his eyes. "I tried to forget her the way she did me, but how could I? She left me behind, and I think of her every day, wondering what could have been. She claims she hasn't forgotten, but I didn't believe it. I won't make the mistake of believing ever again."

There's silence. 

"Faryn," you say softly. "I'm so sorry."

He shrugs. "It's over now. At least, I can hear people throw her name out like it doesn't matter and hardly feel bad at all. I claim not to remember much from my time with her, but I do. Every excruciating second, every detail. I just don't tell anyone. And so here I am, trying not to stay immersed in the past, by immersing myself in the past." He gestures to the history books piled around him. 

You bite your lip. "Do you know where she is now?"

He nods tiredly. "But she doesn't know where I am. I don't think she's bothered."

"Faryn," you say. "I'm glad you told me."

He looks down, away from you. "Me too," he says quietly. "I'm glad you came here, even if you left a life behind," he says. 

"I'm glad too." You grip his shoulder tighter. "I may have left a life behind, but I found another life. A better one. I've never had friends like you, and Lyvya, and Dís and Frerin and Yraena."

A sly smile crosses his face. "What about Thorin?"

You blush. "That's different."

His smile widens. "I'm sure it is."

"Oh, shut up," you laugh. "But really, I am glad you finally told me this. How long?"

He scrubs a hand across his face. "Years."

You put an arm around his shoulders, pulling him against you. "We're in this together, right? With physics and metaphysical stuff included."

He huffs but hugs you back. "With physics and metaphysical stuff included," he says. "Now, are you up for some boring research? I've picked out a whole new shelf of boring books for you." He gestures to a pile of dusty tomes, looking slightly more cheerful. You grimace.

"Goody," you say, picking up the first one and coughing when a could of dust accosts you. "The things I do for you, Faryn."

He smiles at you, and there's a lightness to him now, as if something huge has been lifted from his shoulders. "Likewise, my lady," he says. "Likewise."

+++

"Come on," laughs Yraena, dragging you by the hand. She's been leading you around for a while now, and no matter how many times you ask her where she's taking you all she does is shake her head.

"Yraena," you groan. "Just tell me."

"Shh," she says, grinning. "Patience, Y/N."

"But—"

"We're here," she says. You're both standing in front of a nondescript wooden door, worn with time and hands on the knob, which is shiny with age. She grips it and turns it, pushing the door open, letting you in, and closing it behind you. 

It's dark, but you hear a series of clicks as Yraena flicks the switches, and then the room is flooded with light, illuminating a long, low counter, lots of open space, and boxes and cupboards everywhere. Your eyes widen.

"Is this the _kitchens_? Yraena, what in the name of—"

"I was bored and had nothing to do, and so I asked Dís if I could come down here," she interrupts happily. "She said yes, and since you had an empty schedule too, she said we'd have the place to ourselves."

You laugh and shake your head. "You're unbelievable."

She glows. "Come on, it'll be fun!" she says, and you sigh, relenting. "So what's on the menu?"

She winks. "Lots of cake."

"Sounds like my kind of thing," you say, rubbing your hands together. "But there's a slight problem."

"What's that?" She pauses in the act of tying an apron around herself, looking up with a frown. 

"I can't bake," you say with a shrug. She grins, finishing tying the apron. "But I do," she says. "And I'm going to lead, so it'll be easy. I hope you don't object to getting your hands dirty."

You laugh. "Not at all."

Fifteen minutes later you're both standing at the counter, everything spread out on the island before you. You bite your lip, your mind taking you back to your conversation with Marena at breakfast. You shove it away, not allowing yourself to dwell on it. You'll tell her about when you have to. 

"Time is just running so fast," she says while cracking eggs into a bowl. "I feel like I only arrived here yesterday."

"Me too," you laugh. "It's all been such a blur."

"Before we know it, I'll be married," she sighs. "And next in line to be queen." She shudders. "It's such a large responsibility, I don't know if I can handle it."

"Of course you will," you say, handing her a bowl. "Erebor is in good hands with you and Frerin."

She smiles. "Tell that to my mother," she says with a laugh that doesn't reach her eyes. "She's a little worried."

"Worried is a polite way of saying it," you mutter, dusting flour off your hands. "It'll be fine. You'll make an amazing queen."

"At least you'll be there too," she says, grinning. "I won't be all alone." You snort. "Alone? You'll have Frerin, won't you? In more ways than one," you say with a sly smile. She rolls her eyes, but she's blushing. "Not that way," she says. "I mean like a friend. You'll be next to me, and you can correct me if I'm about to make a mistake that could lose us a war or something."

"It'll hardly come to that," you say, waving a hand and accidentally dropping some powdered sugar onto the counter. "And what is it they say? 'With great power comes great responsibility'." 

She looks at you sideways, confusion flitting across her face. "Who says that?"

You smile reminiscently. "Oh... Just people back at home."

"Well, anyhow," she says, whisking the ingredients together, the bowl tucked close to her chest, "it's difficult, to be queen. She has a lot of duties."

"You can make it fun, if you like it," you say sagely. "Anything can be fun if you like it. You'll enjoy your duties, and then being queen will be a piece of cake," you smile beatifically. "No pun intended, of course."

She laughs warmly. "I can always leave it to you to see the bright side of things," she says. "No matter how moody I am you can lift my spirits."

"It's a special gift," you say, wiggling your fingers. "It's what happens when you're engaged to a constantly moody, slightly grumpy, cynical, sometimes cantankerous man." 

She bursts out laughing. "Is he really?"

"You have no idea." You grin. "I imagine that with Frerin it's quite a different tale."

"Quite different." She shakes her head. "Odd, that they're so different, but they're brothers, isn't it?"

"It is." You lean against the counter as she finishes whisking the ingredients and sets the bowl aside, covering it up. "Like the sun and the moon." You hop into the counter, swinging your legs. 

She looks up at you. "That's a... very accurate analogy." She looks thoughtful. "And I wanted to ask you something as well."

"Shoot." You brace your hands behind the counter. 

"Speaking of," she says. "How is everything going?" she asks cautiously. "With Thorin."

The question catches you off guard. "With Thorin? Fine; why?"

She shrugs. "Not really him; more like the whole engagement thing."

You immediately sit up. "Why? Is something wrong?"

She bites her lip. "No, it's just... nothing. Is it going all right?"

You shrug. "I mean... yeah, it's fine."

She looks troubled. "Good."

"Why?" you ask cautiously. "Is something wrong? Yraena, if anything is up, you can tell me. You don't have to be worried."

She exhales, then shakes her head decidedly, pouring the cake batter into a mound and placing it in the oven. "No, nothing is wrong. It's fine." She hitches a smile onto her face. "Do you want to make icing? I can make some pretty good icing."

You hesitate. "Yeah, sure." You try to make your smile as convincing as hers. "Who'd say no to icing?" She seems to buy the act—she looks relieved, and pulls some more sugar out of the shelf, mixing it with water and stirring it. You hop off the counter and help, your mind whirling. Everything is quiet for a few minutes, and absentmindedly you dip a finger into the icing and taste it, your taste buds rejoicing in the first unabashedly sweet thing you've tasted in days. 

"Mmm." You taste some more, and then more still. "I could live on this. What did you put in it?"

She smiles in a satisfied sort of way. "Mint," she says proudly.

"Well, it's delicious." You lick some more off your finger. "Seriously, who needs vegetables when you have minty icing?" 

"Certainly not you," she laughs. "Now stop eating all of it, there won't be any left for the cake."

"Who cares about the cake? I was here first, anyway." You dip a spoon into the bowl of icing, licking it clean. She slaps your hand playfully, and you grin and smear some onto her cheek. "There," you say as she shrieks. Her eyes glint, and then she smears icing onto your face as well. You grin, tying your hair back. "Girl, it is on," you say, and you scoop up some icing, lobbing it through the air. She shrieks again, trying to dodge, but it catches her on the shoulder. She laughs, and then suddenly there's green icing dripping off your dress.

You duck behind the counter as you aim for her again, and then you've both gone on a full-scale war, green blurs flying around the room amid your yells and laughter. The cake bakes peacefully in the oven, and a badly aimed glob of icing hits the oven, sliding down the glass. 

You're both so preoccupied that you don't even notice when the door opens, and a rumpled-looking Frerin pokes his head in. "Hello, ladies," he says, seemingly oblivious to the war in the room and not to mention the mess, "Dís told me I'd find you in here—" He finally seems to notice that you and Yraena are both messy and disheveled, on opposite ends of the room and covered in icing. His mouth opens, and he goggles at you. "What in the name of Mahal—?"

"Are they in there?" demands another familiar voice, and Thorin comes up beside his brother, blue eyes widening as he takes in the mess. "What...?" 

"Um," you say, "we were baking cake."

Right on cue, the oven chimes happily, announcing the completion of the cake. All of you turn to the sound, and Yraena hurries over to it, taking it out and placing it on the counter, a perfectly shaped little circle of bliss, made of vanilla and chocolate and mint. "You're right on time," she says with a grin. "Want a slice?"

Everyone, it turned out, wants a slice. Frerin wants two. After it is mostly done (though bereft of icing), you sidle up to Thorin, grinning. "Well, you've caught me at my finest," you say, gesturing at your icing-smeared dress and messy hair. 

He smiles a little, shaking his head. "You should have known this would turn into a fiasco," he says. "You can hardly brush your teeth without getting into trouble somehow."

"Spoilsport." You inspect your hands, which are still smeared with liberal amounts of frosting. 

"Dís was calling—" he begins. Before he can finish, Yraena calls from across the room, "Y/N! Thorin! I'm off to change, I feel and look a mess. See you at dinner?"

"See you," you call, and Thorin waves. Yraena and Frerin depart, both laughing at something. The door swings shut behind them. 

"Dís was calling me?" you prompt.

"She said you have to get ready for dinner in a few hours," he says, shrugging. "Frerin dragged me on a wild goose chase around half the Mountain looking for you two—"

"And you were just in time for cake," you say blithely.

He huffs out a laugh. "Trust you to make even traipsing around with Frerin sound worthwhile," he sighs. 

"I exist to serve," you say, and unconsciously you lift your sticky fingers to your mouth, sucking the remaining icing off, your mind a million miles away. Feeling Thorin's eyes tracking the movement you're brought back to earth suddenly, and your cheeks flame as you drop your hands back to your sides. Your face feels hot.

"You missed a spot," he says softly, and your uncertain eyes meet his blazing ones. His fingers lace with yours, and he lifts your entwined hands to his own lips, his tongue flicking over your fingertips. Your eyes close, and you suck in a breath as his breath ghosts over the moist skin. You feel the small, delicious sting of teeth and a small gasp escapes you, your other hand scrambling at the countertop for purchase, heat flooding your insides. Your eyes open, and you blink dazedly at him, your fingers still pressed against his lips.

"That's better, isn't it?" His hand frees yours and it falls, limp, at your side again. You feel sensation crawling over your skin, making you shiver. You didn't feel this disoriented even when you were really drunk. You make a small, incoherent sound in reply. 

A little smile crosses his face, and then, and you don't know how, he's kissing you, his mouth soft against yours. You taste sweet icing and mint and chocolate, and you melt into him, a hand curling on his chest, the other wrapping around his neck. His own hands move to your hips, lifting you so that you're sitting on the counter, your faces on a level. His eyelashes flutter against your cheek as he tilts his head, his tongue slicing into your mouth, curling against yours in a heated tangle. He takes your bottom lip between his teeth and bites gently, and a spike of sensation shoots right between your legs. You gasp. 

It takes flight slowly, turning from soft caresses and gentle kisses into savage tearing and biting, your hands moving roughly from his shoulders to his back, clawing at his shoulder blades. His fingers dig into your hips, skim up your sides, trail down your spine and clench in your hair, making little bits of pleasure-pain explode all over your body. His lips trail down your jaw and suck on the pulse in your throat, and you can't help the moan that slips from your mouth as your nails scratch across his back. 

It's not enough, you think blearily as your hands move to the front of his tunic, fingers hooking into the strings and pulling hard. Fabric tears under your rough grip, and then your hands are on his half-bare chest, encountering raised scars, warm skin and hard muscle, and he makes a soft, pleased sound into your mouth, his fingers spreading across your lower back. You feel like you're on fire, burning slowly from inside. 

He tips you backwards, laying you gently on the bare counter, your back hitting cold marble. You barely have time to register the shock of the cold before his lips find your neck, effectively ridding your body of the feeling, heat instantly replacing it. Your hands reach for him, drawing him down over you, fingers gripping his shoulders as his mouth moves on your shoulder, easing the straps of your dress down your arms, exposing your super-sensitized skin to his marauding lips. You can't get enough of him. 

His teeth graze your jaw and you stiffen, your whole body tensing. He bites down and you moan something that could be his name as the feeling radiates through you, making your limbs buzz. Your hands slide up his chest, framing his face between your hands as you kiss him hard, so hard you taste sticky blood on your lips. Your teeth collide painfully, but you don't care. You can't ever get close enough, never close enough—

There's a horribly loud crash, ringing in your ears and yanking you out of the feeling of kissing Thorin and his hands on your skin, making you sit up abruptly, hands still gripping his shoulders for balance, his own arms still wrapped around your waist. The straps of your dress are hanging off your arms and the neck of the gown is pushed downwards, and the air is cool against the exposed skin. You shiver. 

You look around, spotting the source of the noise—you've knocked down a whole rack of pots and pans, and no doubt you'd roused half the Mountain with how loud it had been. You wince, blushing. 

"Oops," you breathe, and his eyes lock on yours. You're quite proud of yourself; his lips look well-kissed and his face is flushed, and his tunic is hanging off his body. All in all, he looks quite ravished. "That was pretty loud," you say. 

"Who cares?" he murmurs, and he pulls you forward again. You brace your palms on his chest as your lips meet again, but this time you pull away seconds later, shaking your head. "We should get back now—"

"Why?" he asks, eyes sparking. His lips brush achingly over yours and it takes every ounce of your self-control to shake your head again, pushing him bodily off you and alighting from the counter, swaying a little on unsteady feet. "We need to get back—we're in the _kitchens_ , for god's sake—"

"I did make you that offer," he says, grinning as he adjusts his tunic. You blush, trying not to jump on him with all your might. "Let's get out of here." You step back, still swaying. "Before someone walks in and sees you half-naked."

"It's not me I'm worried about." His hand moves to your shoulder, pulling the strap of your dress up. You swat his hand, blushing again. "Come on," you mutter, but you adjust your sleeves all the same, and you could swear you hear him laugh before he heads after you.

+++

You twirl your fork in your fingers absently, staring into space. There's idle chatter going on around you, but you're hardly listening.

"Are you all right?" asks a soft voice, and an elbow bumps you gently. You turn to see Thorin, an eyebrow raised. You shrug noncommittally. "Just thinking."

"You haven't said a word all evening," he says. You shrug again. "I guess I'm tired. I just want to get this over with so I can go to bed."

He nods, looking lost in thought. "Hard to imagine it'll be like this every night," he mutters. "Having to hitch on a polite face and act nice all the time."

"Must be a real task for you," you joke, halfhearted. He rolls his eyes. "You know what I mean."

You sober. "I know. It's just—" You break off suddenly, sitting up straight. Your eyes move to the open doorway, where you just saw a flash of what looked like silver hair. What on earth is she doing here? Was she even invited? 

Automatically you stand, pushing your chair back with a loud scrape. All conversation ceases as everyone turns to look at you. You clear your throat. "Excuse me," you breathe, and you quickly leave the room, ignoring everyone's blatant stares as you pass. 

You leave the dining hall and jog down the corridor, ears pricked. Finally at a door far down, you hear voices, and, half-hidden behind a tapestry on the wall, you hold your breath and listen. 

"...don't want," snaps a familiar voice. _Saelle._ "Why can't you understand that?"

"Of course you want it," hisses another, terribly familiar voice. "Do not tell me you have suddenly let weakness overcome you, Saelle—"

"I'm not weak," she says through gritted teeth. "I know what I want, Hisa."

"Have you finally let that flimsy little princess get to your head?" demands Hisa. "Have you allowed her mind games to work?" 

"She wasn't—she wasn't playing mind games," says Saelle haltingly. "I don't think so."

"You are weak," says Hisa, disgusted. "I thought I raised you better—"

"She was right," hisses Saelle. "She sounded like she knew how—how you say you're a mother figure, but all you are is a spider, at the center of a web, and I'm just another fly in that web, aren't I, Hisa?" 

"You are blinded by her tricks," says Hisa. "That ridiculous girl will never be princess."

"She's not ridiculous," says Saelle quietly. "And Thorin adores her."

"That is temporary infatuation," sniffs Hisa. "Nothing real, just superficial."

"You're the blind one," says Saelle. "You don't want to see that he's going to marry her and he wants to, and there's no stopping it. He—he loves her, Hisa. Like he could never love me, and I him. Why would I want a crown without a heart?"

"Because of the power," sneers Hisa. "Because of the throne—"

"The throne _you_ want," says Saelle. "When are you going to realize I don't want it anymore?" 

"Why?" demands Hisa. "Why don't you want to, anymore?"

"You want to know why?" snarls Saelle. "You want to know the truth?"

"Tell me," snaps Hisa.

"I'm in love with someone else," she says, and the words sound terribly final. Your cheeks burn, and you wish you hadn't heard this. "And I want to be with them. I don't care about the stupid crown. I want to be happy. Is that too much to ask?"

"Can you hear yourself?" asks Hisa, sounding disgusted. "You're acting so selfish—"

"I am not the selfish one," says Saelle. "I'm not your pawn anymore. I'm done being your lapdog. Find someone else deluded enough to think they can ever win Thorin over. Wake up, Hisa. He's _in love_ with Y/N. He's never going to fall out of love with her. Ever. I know. I've seen his face. And hers," she adds quietly. "It's over. I'm done. I am going to be with who I want, and not who you want. And for the simple reason that I love them. And if you think you can say no, and make me do what you want, then you're wrong. It's over."

You hear the sound of footsteps, and a door opens, then closes, and you hear receding steps down the hall, your blood racing through your veins as you stand behind the tapestry, unable to believe what you just overheard.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Sometimes when I look into your eyes, I pretend you're mine, all the damn time."_
> 
> _–Taylor Swift_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, everyone! This was faintly delayed, and my humblest apologies for the same—I had two tests this week. Hope you enjoy this chapter, and I'm sure you can all guess what song I was listening to while writing it. ;)

"I've got a bit of an announcement," says Dís at breakfast the next morning. "It's important, so listen up." She stands, hands on her hips. Her long dark hair is braided back in elegant loops, held with silver beads that glint in the light. "I'm sure you all know, but I'm saying it again. There's not much time left till the wedding, and the ball. We only have a few weeks." She puts her palms flat on the table, leaning forward. "And that means all of us have chores to do."

A collective groan rises from the assembled. "All of us?" asks Frerin, raising an eyebrow. Dís smiles grimly. "Not all of us, of course—the happy couple gets to sit back for a bit, and the rest of us need to get this Mountain ready for the biggest wedding since father's. And at means we have a lot to do."

"Like what?" you ask, frowning. 

"Like invites, the number of people showing up, the gifts, the food, everything." She shakes her braids back. "And our chores start today, so Y/N, I'm afraid you'll have to stop classes. I'm sure you're sufficiently trained now, anyway. You were perfectly charming at every ball for the last few months. You're fine with that, I presume?"

You blink, thinking of Faryn. "Oh. Um—"

"Excellent," she cuts in. "Frerin, Yraena, you two need to get some things done too, but it's mostly things we can handle a little later, like your clothes." She squints at them. "I'll be taking care of the food and all that boring but unfortunately important nonsense, and the decorations can be handled by all of us."

"So when do we start?" asks Thorin, tipping his chair backwards so that the front legs lift off the floor. "Please don't say—"

"Right now," interrupts Dís. He sighs and she smirks. "You and Y/N get the best job out there," she says, grinning. Her resemblance to her brothers is suddenly startling. "You get to sort out the invites and send them to each and every person."

You don't get why that's so bad, but Thorin's mouth falls open. "That'll take ages!" he splutters. "Come on, Dís—"

"No arguments," she says, and there's a solid finality to her words, the voice of a mother who needs to be obeyed. Thorin falls silent immediately, but he looks like he'd like to keep arguing. "Fine," he mutters.

"Good," she says breezily. "You'll probably need to be there all day—"

"All year, more like," says Thorin under his breath.

"So get comfy, you two." She smiles at you. "You've got a long day ahead."

Half an hour later you push a door open, squinting in the dark. "Is this the right room?" you ask, feeling along the wall for a switch. Locating it, you flick it on, and light floods the room. There are four sacks in one corner, but otherwise it's bare. 

"Unfortunately yes." Thorin moves past you, into the room. He takes hold of one of the sacks and peers inside. He whistles through his teeth. "Y/N, you're going to want to see this."

"Hmm?" You head over, looking into the sack. Your jaw drops. "Oh, no way." 

It's filled to the brain and bursting with papers, all of them the same color and shape and size. Your gaze strays to the other sacks, all of them full of papers. "We have to sort all of this out? All of it?"

"Every last sheet." He raises an eyebrow at you. "You think you can manage?"

You roll up your sleeves and tie your hair into a loose knot at the back of your neck. "Hells yes. Bring it on."

He laughs and shakes his head. "Why did I have a feeling you were going to say something like that?"

You wink and blow him a kiss, grasping the sack. "'Cause you know me." You tip the sack over, and paper spills out, spreading across the floor. They flutter to the ground and lie there, blank and taunting. You throw the sack away. "Let's get to sorting, shall we?"

"If we must." He heaves a long-suffering sigh and moves next to you as you kneel next to the sheets, sifting through them with your fingers. "So we have to arrange them?"

"Mmhmm." He picks one up. "We have to write the names of each and every person invited and then seal it, then arrange them according to where they're from."

"Tell me there's a list."

"Of course. Here." He pulls it out of his pocket and you gape at it. "That's as tall as you are."

"What? No, it's not." He holds it up. "It's shorter."

"No. Look." You snatch it from him, standing. "See?"

"I don't see. Give it here, it's definitely shorter than I am." He stands too, tugging it from your hands. "It's shorter."

"No it isn't." You hold it up. "It's not!"

"Yes it is."

"No it's not."

"Yes it is."

"No it's—"

The door opens and both of you turn quickly to see Dís, a brow raised. You're both holding the list like its a tug-of-war rope, facing each other. 

"What on earth is going on?" she asks, looking bemused.

"We were..." You both look at each other. 

"Reading the list," you say.

"Writing the names," says Thorin at the same time. Dís' brow climbs higher. "Well, whatever you were doing, get a move on," she says. "There isn't too much time. I just came to check on you. Is everything all right?"

"It's fine," you say. "Nothing's wrong, we were just starting, weren't we, Thorin?"

"We were." He lets go of the list. Both of you look innocently at Dís, who shakes her head with a sigh and a smile. "All right, get started," she says, and with a nod she leaves the room, closing the door behind her. 

You glare at Thorin. "That was totally your fault."

"And how did you come to that conclusion?" 

"You started it."

"I most certainly did not. You did."

"I didn't."

"All right, I am not having this conversation again," he says, snatching the list and sitting down. "You can join me if you want."

You plunk yourself down next to him with a huff. "Fine." Then you look curiously at the list of names. "So what can I do?"

He points at the list. "You have to write down all these names by hand and copy them onto the invites, is all," he says with a shrug. "And there are about three thousand names on this list, so it'll take a while."

"This'll be fun," you sigh. 

"Mmhmm." He looks at you, a hand reaching out and tucking a wayward strand of hair behind your ear. He hesitates visibly before withdrawing his hand, looking away. He looks almost scared, but you have no idea why. 

"We should get started," he mumbles, and without another word he picks up a piece of paper, busying himself with the task. You blink for a moment, bewildered, before you quickly take an invitation too. 

It's going to be a very long day.

+++

You and Thorin collapse into chairs, both irritated and tired and just really done with the monotonous job you've been given. Till lunch it's been precise writing, copying, writing, copying and writing, and your wrists ache.

"Why did we get the worst job?" you demand of thin air, snatching a glass of water from the table and taking a large swallow. 

"Ask Dís," sighs Thorin, leaning his elbows on the table. "Who knew writing invites could be such laborious work?"

"Not me," you say once you've resurfaced. "I'd even take Frerin's drills to this any day."

"That makes two of us." He runs an annoyed hand through his hair, successfully messing it up. "And Frerin and Yraena get to do nothing."

"Well," you say, "it is their wedding, after all."

"Still." He smiles at you. You feel your own lips tilt up, smiling back. "Well, in a few months it'll be them doing all the annoying work," you say, your voice soft. 

His expression changes minutely, so minutely that you barely catch the shift in his eyes, the tightness in his face. If you didn't know his face so well, you'd never have seen it. Suddenly you're tense. He looks like he's afraid of something. Like he's realized something. You saw the same expression on his face earlier today. 

It sows a small little seed of doubt in your mind. 

Before you can even of think of anything to say the door opens, admitting a very harassed-looking Dís, who sits down with a mumbled greeting, pulling a plate towards her. 

"Dís?" says Thorin. "Are you all right?"

She looks up with a start. "Oh, it's you two!" she says, blinking. "I must admit I didn't see."

You and Thorin exchange looks. "Who else would it be?" he asks. "Is everything all right?"

She nods, distracted. "Yes, yes. Marvelous."

You trade another look.

"What were you doing?" you ask. "You said you were in charge of the food and everything—"

"Well, I was doing that," she says, firing up at once. "But then the ridiculous people who were supposed to arrive decided to _not_ come!" The source of her distraction seems to have been revealed. You pat her arm. "Anything we can do?"

She softens. "It's very sweet of you to offer, but I can manage. All I have to do is bash them in the head a couple of times. Always works."

Thorin determinedly doesn't catch your eye. "Look, Dís, we could help you—"

She waves him off. "No need," she says. "I can manage, like I said. You two have your own fair shares of work to do." She raises a stern eyebrow. "How is the paperwork going?"

"Fine," you both grumble. 

She laughs. "I know, it's dull work. But it's important, and you have to be done in a week. Is that enough time, of should I pull the date?"

"No, you don't have to," you say before Thorin can even think of anything to say. "We'll be done by then."

Thorin closes his mouth.

"Excellent," she says happily. "I knew I could count on you to do it. Nobody else would take the job, see."

"I wonder why," says Thorin under his breath. You give him a swift kick under the table and he shuts up, smiling a little. 

"Right," says Dís, looking slightly happier. "I should get back to work now."

"Not until you've eaten something," says Thorin immediately. "You won't last till dinner otherwise."

She huffs. "I don't need two fathers," she says, but she picks up a fork all the same. Thorin eyes her while she eats, and once she's finished, she makes a face at him. "Satisfied?" she asks, and she stands with a flourish, sighing. "Well, I'll see you two lovebirds later," she says, gliding towards the door. "Let me know when you've finished the papers and I'll manage to find some other task for you before the wedding is here." With a wave and a cheery smile, she closes the door behind her with a snap. 

"That sounds refreshing," you say, side-eyeing Thorin warily. He still looks like someone who has been forced to acknowledge some terrible truth. You want to ask him if anything is wrong, but you hold your tongue. If he wants to tell you, he will. 

"So... shall we get back to work?" you ask cautiously, and he nods, standing. "We still have lots to do."

+++

It's well after midnight, and your hands are still moving, tiredly copying out the names. Your head is aching, and so are your arms. Hell, even your eyes hurt. Is that normal?

You stifle a yawn behind your hand and glance at the time. It's nearing two in the morning, and you think, _Just one more. Just one more, just one..._

Your eyes are slipping closed, and you have to stop writing, mindful that it has to be perfect, and you can't mess anything up. You still, sitting back, your eyes burning. 

"Y/N?" Thorin's voice floats down from somewhere you can't place, sounding blurred. "Hmm?" you ask in reply, turning vaguely towards the sound of his voice. 

"I think we should get to bed now," he says, and you shake your head with an effort. "No," you say, trying to shake off your sleepiness. "No, it's fine." You focus on writing again, and you try to stay awake. If he can, so can you. 

"That's enough," says his voice after about half an hour. "Come on, I'm going to fall asleep right here and so are you."

"Fine," you say, and then you stand, rubbing at your eyes. You both troop out of the room, and you close the door behind you, sighing and stretching, yawning again. 

"You don't look sleepy," you note as both of you tiredly move down the corridor. He shrugs. It's true; he doesn't look sleepy at all. He looks quite awake, actually. 

"You were," he says.

You frown, and for some reason the comment makes you bristle. "I'm not—we could've stayed a little longer," you say. "It wasn't that bad, I wasn't..."

"It's all right," he says. "We need to get to bed anyway."

"Yeah, but I'm not... I could've managed." You look away, all prior sleepiness forgotten. You feel that seed of doubt split and begin to grow, creeping tendrils of darkness and feelers of bad thoughts spreading in your mind. "You didn't have to pretend, I get it."

"It's all right to—"

"I know," you say, cutting through his words. "But you still shouldn't have."

"You're not used to staying up so late, is all," he says. He sounds normal, but there's something therein his voice that sets your teeth on edge. The doubt grows. 

"I could, if I have to." You've reached your room, and you bite your lip, looking down. "Well, good night anyway, Thorin. I'll... see you in the morning."

That horrible hesitation is back on his face. He looks like he can't decide whether to leave or say something or neither. Your cheeks burn as you turn, your fingers gripping the knob of the door, steadying yourself as you make to turn it. 

A second later he catches your arm, spinning you around and pressing a small, soft kiss to your cheek, the gesture impossibly tender and even a little sad. He pulls away, looking into your blushing face. "See you in the morning," he says, and then he turns and leaves. 

You open your door and close it behind you, teeth pulling hard at your lip. Something is definitely off. He's been off-color since what had happened in the kitchens—which still makes you blush whenever you think about it—and while you hadn't told him what you'd overheard about Saelle, you wonder if he knows somehow. 

You undress and slip into your nightgown, sliding under the sheets and trying to sleep. But it evades you, always dancing just out of reach. The doubt is still growing and growing in your mind, and you can't shake off a really bad feeling. It's close to dawn when you finally drift off into a fitful, restless sleep plagued with bad dreams. 

You wake up in the morning feeling like a thundercloud. You feel like a teenager again, when somehow every day you were moody and annoyed and felt like the whole world was out to get you and life was so unfair. You try to get rid of the feeling, but it persists. So instead you stomp to breakfast, sitting down and grabbing a plate with a little more force than usually necessary. 

"Morning, Y/N," says Yraena, waving. You soften a little and smile back. "Hi, Yraena."

"How was yesterday?" she asks, scooting closer. "Apparently Dís gave you the worst job." 

You snort. "She did. We had to sort out invites and write all the names. There are about five million people invited."

She sighs, sitting back. "Well, at least you'll know the people who'll be invited."

You blink. "Yeah, I guess. Well, there's one upside to this whole thing."

"At least you'll have company," she says, winking. "It's just you and Thorin, alone, all day, in a locked room..." She sips tea innocently. "Plenty to do."

You look down, suddenly not hungry, guilt washing through you. Which is bizarre; you don't even know why you're guilty. You swallow, feeling like you've just made a huge mistake. 

"Y/N?" She looks concerned. "Are you all right?"

"I'm—" Before you can lie through your teeth and tell her you're fine, the door opens, letting in Frerin and Thorin, both speaking in low tones. The moment they catch sight of you and Yraena, they shut up, looking slightly awkward. The feeling in your chest grows, and you feel a lump in your throat. 

They both sit down across from you, and you notice immediately that Thorin looks away from you, focusing instead on the table. Frerin and Yraena are already talking, but the words don't register in your head through the roaring in your ears. Something is wrong. Really, really wrong. 

You find yourself unable to look up and meet his eye, and instead you look down and away, wondering when it became like this. Why can't you even look at him?

Walking together to the room where you'd been all day yesterday is the most awkward thing ever. You just don't know what to say. How? With Thorin, you'd always known what to say. But now, there's only silence. Even as you work, laboriously and uninterrupted, there's only silence. 

"At the dinner, the other day," says his voice, so suddenly that you jump, "you just upped and left. What happened?"

You look up at him, hesitant. "I thought I saw someone," you say. "It was nothing. False alarm."

You don't know why you're lying. You should tell him the truth, about what you heard and what Saelle and Hisa are talking about. But for some reason, you don't. All you know is that the you from three days ago wouldn't hesitate to tell him. But the you right now... she's hesitating. She's afraid. She's doubting someone she never thought she'd doubt. 

"Oh," he says. "You looked more than a little intrigued." He shrugs. "And you seemed a little off-color when you came back, so..."

"Well, it was nothing." You try for a light, carefree tone. "So you didn't have to worry."

And that's the last bit of conversation you have until dinner. 

You head to your room, your mind churning almost as much as your stomach. You don't know what's going on, but whatever it is, it's not good. The doubt has spread its dark leathery wings so far and wide that now there's no room for anything else. You have a terrible, sinking feeling in your stomach, and a notion is tickling the back of your mind. 

Lyvya is in the room when you open the door.

"Hi," you say, moving to the bed and sitting down. "I didn't know you'd be here."

She smiles, brushing a deep turquoise dress with black embroidery on the neck and sleeves. "I just came to get some things ready, miss," she says, setting the dress down on a hanger and adjusting it. "How was today?"

"It was terrible." You flop back into the pillows, sighing. "It was really terrible."

"Why's that, miss?"

"Because—" For a moment you want to open your mouth and tell her everything, from how everything's gone downhill so quickly, to how you want to go back to the way it was, how you're so afraid something's going on behind your back. "Nothing," you sigh instead. "Just a long day, and it was tiring. That's all."

"Well, miss, tomorrow will be better, I'm sure," she says, moving towards the bed and touching your hair. "Is something wrong? Do you want to tell me anything?"

You bite your lip and shake your head. You've always been good at hiding your feelings from other people, but you have your moments, when your defenses are crappy and you wear your heart on your sleeve for the world to see. Now is one of those moments. So, naturally, Lyvya doesn't need to be a bloodhound to smell something fishy. 

"Miss," she says softly. "You can tell me anything."

You sit up slowly, swallowing. "Lyvya," you say, your voice barely a whisper, "you don't think something is going on with Thorin, do you? You haven't heard anything from any of the other maids?"

Her concerned expression melts off her face, replaced instantly by alarm. "Not at all, miss," she says. "Why, is something wrong? Did you fight?"

"I wish," you sigh. "No, it's just become so awkward and strange lately, like I can't even look at him anymore. For a few days now, it's been really odd. He hasn't been talking to me, or looking at me, and he always looks sort of hesitant around me now." You shake your head. "It's scaring me, a lot. And I can't help but think... that..." You can't go any further.

"That he's what, miss?" she asks, softly. 

"That he's seeing someone else," you say, and the words sound terrible and wrong and ugly. "I feel like he's lost interest in me and he's with someone else behind my back."

Her verdigris eyes are wide in her pinched face. "That can't be true," she says in a hushed voice. "It can't be, miss. You know it."

"But it feels that way." You look away, eyes burning. "I don't know why."

"He—he loves you, miss, I know," she says, and you can tell what an effort it takes her to say something like this, something that she's not allowed to say. "I've seen it, in his face whenever he's with you. He can't be seeing someone else." 

"Then why?" you whisper. "Why does he suddenly have no time for me, and no words for me, and nothing else left?"

"I—" She swallows. "I don't know about that, miss, but I can assure you he's got eyes for no one but you."

"I'm not looking for assurance that he... I don't know, but I feel like he's slipping away from me. And I don't know what to do."

She surprises you then by leaning forward and dropping a tiny kiss on your cheek. "Do what you always do, and do best," she says. "Be yourself, miss. That's who he fell for, isn't it? If you cast away the doubt, then the problem will solve itself, you'll see."

You hug her tight, sighing. "You're amazing, Lyvya," you say, even though you still feel sad. "And you're the sweetest dwarrowdam I've ever met. I'm luckier than every woman in this Mountain to have you as a friend."

"A maid," she corrects, but she's smiling. "I'm just your maid, miss."

"No, you're not," you say, shaking your head. "You're never just my maid."

She smoothies your hair. "Now go to sleep, and in the morning all will be well," she says, tugging the blankets up to your chin. "All will be well."

As you close your eyes and fall asleep, you wish you could believe her.

+++

"Y/N," says Faryn, looking pleased. "I haven't seen you for days."

"Yes, well." You sit on a chair by the fire. "I've been doing wedding chores."

"Ah." He nods in an understanding sort of way. "I see. The bane of a sibling's existence."

"Would you know?" You sigh, stretching your legs out. 

"No, but I have heard it from others," he says, eyeing you. "Anything important you need to tell me?"

"No. I mean, yes, but not really." You scowl. 

"Then what are you doing here? I'm sure they need your help for wedding chores." He frowns at you, then his eyes start to clear as he looks you over slowly. From your guilty expression to your nervously twisting hands, to the flush on your face. "Y/N," he says, raising an eyebrow. "What are you doing here?"

You sigh. "I'm hiding."

"From?" He puts his glasses on, blinking at you. His eyes shimmer, blue and navy and violet and crystal. "Don't say chores, I'll have to send you back." 

"No, not chores." You exhale. "I'm hiding from myself, I guess. Doing chores... it means spending time with Thorin, who I really don't want to look at right now."

His brow climbs higher. "Lovers' spat?"

"No!" You kick at the carpet. "I just... it's complicated."

"I see." 

"I had another dream," you blurt.

His eyes spark and he leans forward. "Go on. What happened?"

"Nothing," you say on a breath. "Absolutely nothing. It was the same landscape, but there was no wind, no voice, no nothing. It was just... still. No life at all. I woke up feeling sort of empty."

He scowls. "Nothing at all? Nothing? Not even a breath?"

You shake your head.

"Well, that's just maddeningly unhelpful." He frowns at the paper balanced on his knees, covered with spidery writing, written in his own careful hand. "It defies everything I've got here so far. Nothing means... what do you think it means?" He leans back, looking at you through magnified eyes because of his glasses. 

You frown, feeling oddly like you're sitting in front of a teacher who's conducting a viva. "Well... nothing could mean that maybe I was getting close to finding out why I came here, and now I'm far away again. Maybe this is a sign that I'm not close anymore. That I'm doing something wrong, maybe. Before, I was on the trail of it, but now I'm cold."

He smiles at you. "Brilliant. That's brilliant. Exactly what I was looking for." He beams. "I think the same thing." He pats your arm. "Have you been doing anything differently, since the past few days? Anything off lately?"

Your breath catches. "I—what?"

"Anything that seems different." He looks at you with a sort of curious innocence, seemingly unaware of the turmoil the question has caused you. "Anything at all."

"Well, there is one thing, but... but it can't be that. That can't be it, I'm sure."

He frowns. "Y/N, you need to tell me if anything is wrong, I can help find out—"

"Faryn, I actually need to go," you say, standing, heart pounding. "Wedding chores and all."

He frowns at you. "All right," he says. "But next time I see you, just tell me—"

"See you later, Faryn," you say, and without waiting for him to reply, you speed off into the shelves and leave the room, pressing yourself against the wall outside, catching your breath. This can't mean what you think it means. It can't. You'll make sure it isn't. 

You press the heels of your hands into your eyes, taking a deep breath. You are going to survive this. "I am going to find out what's going on," you say to yourself. "I'm going to find out."

+++

The scratch of the quill on dry paper is a sound you're coming to hate more than nothing else; it's the only thing that fills the silence that swells between you and Thorin. You're sitting on the floor, piles of paper balanced precariously around you. There's the usual terrible, swelling, billowing silence, but nothing else.

You look up out of the corner of your eye, looking at him. Your heart hurts; he looks achingly beautiful, with his hair falling down his shoulders in an inky waterfall; his eyes, not quite gray, not quite blue, shimmering in the dim light; his lips, soft and full and slightly parted in concentration as he writes, and the shadows playing across his face. Your throat aches as you look away. 

Your hand trembles slightly as you write. It's been four days, four days of excruciating distance. You haven't touched him, haven't kissed him, haven't spoken to him much at all, in four days. It feels like four years. You've managed to hide most of your inner turmoil, and you've plastered a pretty convincing mask on most of the time, but Lyvya is the only one who knows. 

The clock chimes eleven and you stand, cracking your knuckles with a sigh, rubbing your eyes. You head wearily to the door, and you hear him follow you. The door closes with a whisper, and you head down the corridor, eyes trained on the shadows on the wall, marking where he is. 

You turn around once you reach your door, and you brace a hand on the knob, biting your lip as you turn to face him, your heart pounding. You feel your face flame as you see his eyes fall from yours, and your teeth free your lip as you look away. 

"Y/N," he says, and a little surge of electricity pulses through you, the way it always does when he says your name. You look up instinctively, eyes locking on his. "Yeah?"

"I've been... I need to talk to you."

You swallow, and force a smile. "What about? It is getting late..."

"I know," he begins, and you can tell he's struggling to get the words out. You wait, teeth gritted. "I know it's been... strange, for the past week—"

"Has it?" Your voice wobbles dangerously. "I hadn't noticed."

He sighs, running a hand through his hair. He always does that. "I'd almost forgotten about your penchant for sarcasm," he says on a small laugh. "It's been a pretty long time since..."

"Thorin, I need to get to bed," you say, interrupting him. Your voice is cold, and he looks startled. "Just say what you need to say. I know it's been strange, and a long time, and it's been terrible, but if that's how it's going to be from now on, then I can live with it. I'm not as delicate as you think I am."

His eyes drift to yours, and you feel like you've just been injected with caffeine. Your body feels like it's vibrating. You'd forgotten how intoxicating it is when he looks at you like this. You hear Lyvya's voice from somewhere far away in your head. _I've seen it, in his face whenever he looks at you._ The thought dissolves faster than it came. 

"No, you're not," he says quietly. 

"What's going on?" you ask, your voice flat and thin. "What's happening, Thorin? Why is it like this?"

He looks directly at you, and the breath is crushed from your lungs. "I don't know," he says. "I don't know what's going on."

"That's not an answer. You have to tell me."

"I can't," he says, and you can see the precise moment when his resolve breaks, crumbling away like the ocean washing away a flimsy castle made of sand. Almost as if it's against his will, he pulls you towards him, his hands shaking as your bodies slam up against each other. For a second, all you can comprehend is how close he is; the next thing you know, his lips are on yours and then you can't think. 

All the desperation of the past few days guide your hands, make them grip his shoulders so hard you're sure your nails break his skin. His own hands rest on your hips, fitting perfectly into the bend of your waist. You fit together, like pieces of a puzzle, each dip and edge and curve made for one another. 

"Tell me," you gasp between hot kisses, and he swallows your breath, his presence surrounding you. "Tell me why—" 

"I can't," he groans, the same answer as before. "I can't tell you why." His teeth sink into your lower lip and your spine curves, arching into him as you gasp. "Thorin—"

He yanks himself away from you, and the effort it takes is evident. He shakes his head, moving away. "I can't do this," he says. "You can't know why—not yet. I'm sorry, Y/N." And just like that, he's gone, leaving you alone in the corridor, the feeling of his mouth still lingering on your lips.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"The course of true love never did run smooth."_
> 
> _–William Shakespeare_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Looks like love is in the air! Hope you all like this chapter. ;)

You lie awake all night, and when you do fall asleep it's fitful and restless, plagued with flashes of memories of the previous night—the frightened look on Thorin's face, the emptiness inside you when the silence engulfed you, the burn of his lips on yours and his hands on your hips, the desperation in his eyes as the words repeat in your head over and over and over. _You can't know why, not yet. I'm sorry, Y/N. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry..._

Your eyes fly open and you gasp, coming back to yourself slowly. Your heart is pounding wildly, and you sigh, putting your face in your hands. The sheets are twisted around your legs in a hard spiral, and your skin feels like it's crawling. 

You glance at the time, knowing you won't be able to fall asleep now. It's close to dawn anyway, so you get dressed, slipping on a loose-fitting gown and leaving the room. 

It's cold in the corridor, and you walk aimlessly, your conversation with Thorin replaying in your mind. You still don't know if he's seeing someone else, but after the way he'd kissed you last night, like he knew he'd go to hell for it but he was doing it anyway, you're sure that's not it. Then what was going on? 

You hear footsteps approaching, and look around furtively, not wanting to be seen wandering the corridors at four in the morning. There are a number of small alcoves lining the walls, and you duck into one, twitching the curtain closed before you hold your breath, pressing yourself back against the wall. A silhouette ripples across the thin gauze of the curtain, and you instantly recognize it. _What the hell?_

The shadow recedes and you make a split-second decision, ducking out of the alcove and peeking into the corridor. You see a flash of silver hair round the corner, and you dart after it, the tread of your feet soundless on the floor. You round the corner after her, and you're just in time to see her duck into one of the unoccupied guest rooms, her gait cautious. She's hiding something. 

You step as close as you can to the door, holding your breath again. You know it's wrong, and you've already eavesdropped on Saelle once before, but this might be your chance to find out exactly what's happening. And why not admit it? You're curious. Why is she acting so suspicious, anyway? What can she possibly have to hide that's so big she's sneaking around at the crack of dawn?

"I thought I'd see you here," says a low, fluttery voice. "You're late, by the way."

"Oh, hush," says Saelle's voice, almost a purr. "You know I had to get past Hisa."

"Why not just tell her about us?" You still. The voice isn't familiar, but it's not what you expected, either. "You could save yourself—and me—a lot of trouble."

"It's not that simple, Estela." You hear her sigh. "You know how Hisa is. If she went ballistic because I love someone else, how will she react when she knows that someone is you?"

"Am I that ugly?" Estela's voice is full of mischief. 

"You know you're the most beautiful woman in this Mountain." She sounds reverent. "But it's because you _are_ a woman that I can't tell anyone. I can't risk this getting out, Estela. You know what they'll say behind your back. You'll be a disgrace... and I can't do that to you. I'd never forgive myself."

There's a moment of silence.

"You told Hisa about us?"

"No... Just that I love someone else, but I didn't say who." She exhales. "I don't think she'd ever guess it's you. She's still so hung up on Thorin, it's ridiculous. It's obvious he's far past gone."

"Is it that bad?" Estela sounds amused. 

"Worse than you could possibly imagine. I swear he has stars and moons in his eyes when he looks at her or says her name." She laughs a little. "I used to hate her, you know. For taking it away."

"The throne?"

"Mmm. I did want it, a little. But the plan was always the same. Marry him, be with you. I was sure he would be fine with it. He's... he's kind. But now it seems I don't have to. And I was furious. She just arrived one day and snatched all my hopes. But as the weeks went by... She's just so _nice_ , Estela. She refuses to see the bad in you. And I felt so guilty." She sighs, almost frustrated. "And it happened one day. He was looking at her, and it just hit me, the way he was. It was like..."

"Like what?" Estela's voice is soft.

"Like the way I look at you," says Saelle. "I knew then, that no matter what I did it'd be fruitless. He loves her. And there's no going back from a love like that."

"And that's when you realized you didn't want the throne at all," says Estela. 

"It would kill us both if we married," she says. "I love you, Estela. And I don't care if Hisa tells me it's just temporary, like she thinks everything is. I want to stay with you."

"And I love you too, Saelle. And you should tell Hisa about us. It doesn't matter what she thinks. Or anyone thinks. I don't want to live in a cage anymore, scared of leaving. I want to leave, go out, tell people it doesn't matter, because you can't put rules on what we have."

"I'll tell her," says Saelle on an exhale. "I'll tell her today. And tell her that if she thinks it's immoral or unethical or whatever, I'll tell her to go—" She snaps something unprintable and you can hear the smile in Estela's voice when she answers. "That's my foul-mouthed girl."

"I am yours," says Saelle. "And I will be, forever."

"I know," says Estela, and there's a brief silence, then Saelle says, "I have to go. I'm meeting Hisa now."

"You'll tell her about us?"

"I will. I'll see you after, Estela. At the fountain, all right?"

"No," says Estela. "No more trysts, no more rendezvouses. I want to see you and be seen with you, make this real. I'll see you at the ball tonight."

"Estela—"

"Saelle."

A sigh. "The things I do for you, Estela."

You hear the smirk in her laugh. "Likewise, darling. Now go, you have a truth to reveal."

"I'm going, I'm going. I'll tell you how it went at the ball."

"At the ball," says Estela, and that's the only warning you have before you hear footsteps. You dive into one of the open doors to hide yourself, and you see a girl who must be Estela walk past, disappearing. You only see a flash of dark hair and nothing else as she walks away. You hesitantly leave the room, listening for footsteps. Has Saelle already left?

You've just taken a step forward when a voice comes from the open door, making you jump out of your skin. "You don't have to hide," it says, and a familiar slender figure with a waterfall of silver curls steps out, arms folded and a brow arched. "You're not that good at sneaking around."

"Saelle!" You swallow, mortified at having been caught. "I'm so sorry, I didn't mean—"

"Save your breath." She raises her other brow. "It's okay."

"I—what?"

She sighs. "You have a right to know, anyway. Being Thorin's bride and all."

"I'm not his bride yet." The words pop out of your mouth automatically and almost against your will. The moment you say it you wonder why you said it. They sound almost sharp, accusatory, reprimanding. Saelle notices, and her brows climb higher. 

"Sorry," you sigh. "It's just... Things aren't looking so great right now."

"Trouble in paradise?" 

"Was it ever paradise to begin with?" You look away. 

"Looked like that to me, certainly. I was under the impression that you'd both happily fallen in love and put aside your differences and are now happy to be engaged. No?" She looks amused. "Have I got it wrong?"

"Where did you get that idea?" You sigh. "I mean, it was... I thought it was, sort of. But it's not all sunshine and rainbows."

"I get it." She frowns at you. "Exactly how much did you hear?"

You blush. "Oh, um..."

"All of it, then." She sighs. "What on earth are you doing awake at this hour, anyway?"

"Couldn't sleep."

"Right." She inspects you. "It's something to do with Thorin, isn't it?" 

You stay quiet.

"I see," she says. "Well, anyhow, I don't think I have to threaten you to keep you quiet about what you just heard... Do I?" She squints at you, shifting her weight from foot to foot. You smile a bit, ruefully. "No, I don't think you do. I'd never... You know I'd never tell anyone, Saelle."

She eyes you unreadably. "I do know," she says at last. "I do." She sighs. "And damn me if I know why." She rubs a hand across her face. You realize belatedly that she's bereft of makeup, her face clear and erased, her hair loose and unstyled, hanging till her waist. She looks ten years younger without all the cosmetics. 

"So that's the big secret." She looks down. "That's what I've been hiding—nearly all my life. Hisa tried to drill it into my head that I wanted it, to marry Thorin and sit on the throne and have power. But when I met Estela..." Her expression turns wistful. "All those dreams flew out of the window. I realized that all I wanted was her. And when Hisa started to suspect, well..." She rolls her eyes. "She tried to 'cure' me, as she called it. I told her it was all right and I'd never see Estela again."

You frown. "But..."

"Oh, I lied." She smiles a cat's smile. "I broke Rule Number One: _never_ lie to Lady Hisa. No matter what. But it was so easy I just went on lying, and how I think it's time I brought this secret into the light. I want to let people know that the girl who they played for a foolish, shallow thing isn't what they thought she was." She looks down again, shrugging. "And I figured I owed you an apology."

You blink, startled. "For what?"

"For being such a bitch," she says. "I know it was sort of annoying, so I'm sorry." She blushes, looking away,

You bite your lip. "You don't have to be sorry," you say. "You were going through a lot of drama, so I get it. There's nothing to be sorry for."

She looks at you in something resembling disbelief. "Of course there's something to be sorry for," she says. "I was probably the main reason you hated those parties."

You blush. "Not really."

"You're too nice," she says, shaking her head, "it's disconcerting. I've never had anyone be so nice to me before. How do you manage not to spit in everyone's faces at those stupid parties? Especially Marena."

You smile humorlessly. "I do my best."

She shakes her head. "Of all the worldly mysteries," she says, "you're the one I don't think anyone can solve, Y/N."

"Funny," you say, "that's what everyone seems to say about me."

That startles a laugh out of her. "I imagine so," she says. "Anyway, I'd better go, if I want to tell Hisa about everything. I'll see you around." She nods at you.

"Bye," you say faintly as her figure recedes down the corridor. Once she turns away and out of sight you blink at the wall, flummoxed. Did you just have a civil conversation with Saelle? Who you just found out is dating another girl called Estela behind everyone's backs. And she doesn't want the throne, and she hates Lady Hisa, and she's actually pretty cool. Right.

What on earth is happening to your life?

+++

There's an odd fluttering in your stomach when you head to breakfast, and, upon being unable to immediately identify it, you dismiss it and leave, not thinking about it much. Halfway there, however, you realize that it's nervousness. After what happened last night with Thorin, how are you supposed to face him? And then sort the stupid invites out again? Luckily it's your last day of sorting, and there's only half a sack left, but that doesn't make it any less excruciating.

You take a few deep breaths before pushing the doors open, your stomach twisting itself into knots. Leave it to you to get this nervous to have breakfast. It's just breakfast, and Thorin might be there. And you have to look at him and act like you didn't talk to him yesterday about how he's been avoiding you, and then you'd found yourself kissing him like it was your last day on earth, and then he'd refused to tell you why he was avoiding you before leaving you to wonder what the hell was going on. 

This is going to be a piece of cake.

You walk inside, and to your immense relief, Thorin isn't there. You sit beside Dís, who's balancing Kíli on her lap, trying to get him to eat. He smiles and waves, and you wave back, grinning. You can always count on Fíli and Kíli to make you feel better even at a time like now. 

"Morning, Y/N," says Dís happily. "How's the sorting?"

"We're almost done," you say with a smile. "Last half sack. We'll be done by dinner."

"Excellent." She winks at you. "I've already got another fun task for the two of you—it's not really a task, per se, but it'll do."

"What do you need us to do? We're ready to help," you say. 

She smiles. "That's very sweet of you. Anyhow, I'd like you to—"

The door opens and you look up automatically, your heart rate spiking. _Oh, great._ You look quickly back at Dís, your face flushing and your heart rate spiking alarmingly. You try desperately not to look up as you sense him sit down, right next to you. You suddenly feel like there's not enough air in the room.

"Yes?" You look at Dís, swallowing. She doesn't seem to notice anything out of the ordinary, which is a relief. "I need you both to check out the venue, see if it's ready and all. It's quite a ways into the Mountain, so it's a half-day excursion. When will you be done with this?"

"Tonight," you both say at the same time. On an impulse you turn and look at him, and he's looking back at you too. You both look away quickly.

"Good. Then you can do that tomorrow, and them a week of just focusing on the more immediate stuff, then it's showtime." She rubs her hands together. "I can't believe Frerin is getting married," she laughs. "It seems like yesterday he was as big as Fíli." She squeezes her son around the middle and he giggles. 

You crack a smile. "Time has been running awfully fast lately," you say. "Sometimes we have to really work to keep up, or else we'll be left in the dust." You look away, shaking your head to rid yourself of the nostalgia. "When's the wedding?"

"Exactly a week and three days." She rubs her temples with the tips of her fingers. "We've all been waiting years, and now it's nearly here. It's disconcerting to say the least."

"I'm sure." You inspect her. "Was it this tense for your wedding?"

She laughs. "Hardly. I mean, it was pretty rushed, seeing as I was the first to get married, but then again, I'm not the heir to the throne." Her eyes gleam. "The daughters are always downplayed for the sons."

"Dís," sighs Thorin. "Enough with the drama."

She laughs, fingers absently combing through Fíli's golden hair. "Fine, fine. Anyhow, you two should get going before it gets late. Go on, shoo. And make sure you're done by dinner, so tomorrow you can go to the hall!" she calls as you stand. You wave and duck out of the room, your pulse spiking again as it closes behind you and Thorin—judgement day has arrived. 

You resolve to act like nothing happened. It's the easiest way out of this mess, anyway, and you don't like fighting with anyone, least of all Thorin. Even after everything. 

"You think we can finish by dinner?" you ask, carefully moderating your voice. To your relief, you sound normal. 

"No idea." He sounds just as neutral, and you don't look up at him as you reach the door. "It depends on how much is left."

"Not much," you say, stepping inside. You open the last sack, which is only about a fourth full. "I think we'll be okay."

"Good." 

You clear your throat. "Could you pass the papers, please?"

He hands them to you. "Here," he says, eyes downcast. You take them. "Thank you."

"You're welcome."

It's too stiff, too polite. You hate it, but you grit your teeth and sit down, pulling out a quill and an ink pot. You start to write, a hollow feeling in your chest, like there's a heavy weight on it. You can barely breathe past the silence and the weight of it. 

There's no sound but the rustle of papers and the hated scratch of the quill. You glance up occasionally, catching fleeting glimpses of him as he works, and you look away quickly every time, your breath a little shorter than it was before. You really want to know what's going on. How can you live like this? 

After lunch, it's the same. What conversation you have is sparse and polite, nothing unnecessary. You work quietly, uneventfully, not distracted or anything. And after dinner, the last invite is finished.

"Done," you say, placing it on the neat pile you've made. "All done."

"Finally." He cracks his knuckles, sighing and leaning back against the wall, observing you from under a hooded, glittering cobalt gaze. You look away, and focus instead on the piles. "We should tell Dís."

"We should." He makes to stand, and you say, "Wait."

He stops. You don't know what you're doing, but the whole day, silence and awkwardness and everything that was left unsaid, it's all too much suddenly. You realize you're shaking, and not from nervousness or sadness, but from rage. 

You're furious with him, and you're not going to hide it anymore.

You stand too, turning to face him. "That's enough," you say, your voice trembling. "I've had enough of this."

"Enough of what—"

"You know what I'm talking about," you snarl, stepping closer. "I'm talking about you. And how you're being so—so distant suddenly, like you just decided to stop caring. What is going on? You have to tell me."

His jaw clenches. "I can't—"

"Yes, you can!" You're shouting now, but you don't care. Frustrated, desperate tears rise in your eyes. "You have to tell me what's happening! If you want to end this, or if you're not interested in me anymore, just say it, and you could save me a lot of heartbreak!" Your voice cracks and you look away, hating yourself for it. 

"Why," he says, teeth gritted, "does everyone keep asking me if I'm going to leave you, even Frerin—"

"Frerin? You talked to Frerin about us, but you didn't talk to me?" you demand. "Why? Why haven't you bothered with me for the past week, Thorin?" 

"Because I can't talk to you," he says, and he sounds as angry as you, though he doesn't deserve to be. "I can't talk to you, I can't be with you, I can't even look at you."

Your breath catches in your throat as you reel back, the words hitting you like bullets. Without even realizing what you're doing you stumble backwards, turning and making to leave the room, tears welling in your eyes as your hand grips the doorknob. You can't do this anymore. You have to get away from this. 

You feel a sudden pressure on your other wrist as you turn the knob, and then you're being spun around, Thorin's arms pinning you in place. You thrash, snarling, but he holds fast. "Wait, Y/N, that's not what I meant," he hisses, and you writhe again, stomping on his foot. "Let me go!"

"Not until you let me explain," he says, and you gradually quiet down, glaring at him. "What are you going to explain? Why you're suddenly acting like I'm not worth it anymore? Why you've been ignoring me and acting so odd and distant? Why you're—"

He shakes you slightly. "Stop it," he says. "Just listen."

"No!" You break free of his grip, furious. You don't want to know anymore. You just don't care. "I don't care anymore. You've lost your chance to tell me anything."

"Y/N, wait," he says. He sounds sad and broken, like the last five days haven't been too kind to him, either. "Please, just listen. It isn't as if I want to do this to you—"

"Then _why_?" Your voice cracks, straining. "Why?"

He steps forward, hands gripping your shoulders hard enough to bruise, his expression furious. "Because I love you!" he yells, desperation in every syllable, and the words make you go limp, your eyes wide. He sighs, bowing his head, hiding his face. "I love you," he says, softer this time. His hands loosen their grip on you as he does. "And I haven't been able to... to say it, or even bring myself to... I couldn't. I didn't know what it was, at first, and it scared me. I was too afraid to even look at you. I was a coward, and I'm sorry."

Your whole body feels like it's thrumming with energy, charged and alive after so many days in the darkness. The words echo in your mind, making electricity pulse thorough you every time they do. _He loves me. He loves me. He loves me._

His head is still bowed, and you can't see his face. Cautiously you bring a hand up, cradling his cheek, tilting his head up, and ever so slowly and gently you press your lips to his, your other hand resting on his shoulder. 

His arms catch you up against him, crushing you to him as he kisses you back, desperate and carnal and driven by pure, unadulterated want. His usually so gentle hands are rough now, as if you've broken some hidden dam somewhere deep inside him, and all this desperation has broken through. He's always so careful with you, like he's afraid he'll break you, but not this time. 

He parts your lips with his, and as your tongue brushes against his the feeling shoots all over your body, setting you on fire. He tastes like tea and cinnamon, and he feels so incredibly good pressed up against you, every part of your bodies aligned. Your hungry fingers thread into his hair, tilting his head and changing the angle of the kiss, allowing your tongue to tangle with his and plunder his mouth. 

You pull away with a savage jerk, breathing hard, your face flushed. "You idiot," you breathe, desire curling low in your stomach. "You obtuse, stubborn idiot." You kiss him again, reveling in the feeling of him against you. You nip his bottom lip, and he murmurs something into your mouth, his fingers moving dangerously low down your back. You feel blinded by want, and overwhelmed with what he'd told you. 

"You're so stupid," you go on, unlatching your lips from his. "Why didn't you tell me?"

He's panting, eyes half closed. There's a deep flush on his cheeks, and his lips are swollen and bitten in numerous places. "I told you," he says, his voice rough. "I didn't know at first, and then when I did know I was too afraid to say it."

"Why? Did you think I don't love you back?" His eyes jump to yours, and you swallow hard before speaking again. "Because if that's what you thought..." You shake your head. "You're wrong. Because I do."

His lips just brush yours, slowly. A sudden, strong pang of desire strikes you, a pulsing ache between your legs. "Say it," he whispers, and you feel his mouth move against yours. You close your eyes, letting the sensation sweep through you. 

"I love you, too," you say softly. 

He lets out something like a sigh, and then he's kissing you again, arms wrapping you completely. You dissolve into it, your head spinning around as you lose the ability to think. His breath is soft and warm on your lips, his hands heavy and comforting. You want to freeze this moment, live in it forever. You never want to leave. 

You hear the door open distantly, so distantly you think it's a part of your imagination. You can't think, after all. But then you hear someone clear their throat pointedly and reality penetrates through the haze of desire and contentment your mind, flooding your head. You gasp and step away from Thorin, wondering not so idly why you're always, always interrupted. 

Dís raises an eyebrow. "Am I interrupting something?"

You blush, mortified. "Dís! Um, actually..." You look sideways at Thorin, who's blushing as much as you are. "Um—" you say again. 

"You know what, don't answer that." She looks at you skeptically. 

"We—we finished the sorting," you say, biting your lip. 

"I can see that." She eyes the pile of papers, stacked neatly. "I just came to see if you were done. It's after dinner time. I came to call you up."

"We'll be right there," you say, straightening your dress, which is crumpled. "Just give us a second." 

She nods, eyes twinkling, and shuts the door behind her with a snap. 

"Oh, Mahal. That was mortifying," you say, covering your face, which feels hot, with your hands. "I can't believe she caught us—"

His fingers encircle your wrists, pulling your hands away from your face as he kisses you again, your forehead, your cheek, your eyes, your lips. "Listen to you," he says, pressing his lips to your cheek. "You said 'Mahal', like a dwarf." His lips capture yours in a fleeting, warm kiss that nevertheless makes your toes curl. "I love you, Y/N. I've waited so long to say it."

You smile against his mouth, ridiculously happy. You wrap your arms around his neck, pushing yourself up on tiptoe so as to better reach his lips with yours. You feel like a block of ice in your chest has finally melted, and warmth is seeping into you, slowly bringing you back to life. 

"We should go," he mutters, and you ignore him, your tongue flicking over his lower lip tantalizingly. His hands tighten on your hips and you hide another smile, slowly closing your teeth over his lip. The pressure on your hips tightens even more, borderline painful. "Y/N," he groans. 

"Mmm?" You catch his lip between yours, pressing down. His control breaks, and suddenly you find yourself shoved against the wall hard, in a way that should be painful but oddly isn't. His fingers dig into your waist as his other hand spears into your hair, tilting your head back as his mouth finds your neck, teeth biting your skin. You gasp, heat flaring in your body. 

He yanks you closer with a savage tug, and the movement flattens your breasts against his chest. The feeling tears though you, and a surprised moan fights its way out of your mouth. Sensation spreads in your stomach, and your hands clutch at his shoulders helplessly. 

You want him, so badly. The desire to be his is overwhelming, and suddenly the dress you're wearing is too heavy and scratchy and annoying. You want his hands on your skin, feel the heat and the muscle of him against you. 

He kisses your neck and you squirm, breathless, your back arching. Liquid fire races up and down your veins. You're burning, burning under his hands. His hand cups the inside of your knee, slowly bringing your leg up to curve around his waist. You grab the front of his tunic for balance as he leans forward, moving closer, and your chest heaves as your hips press against his and you feel him against you suddenly, and it smashes the air from your lungs.

"We need to go," you gasp, even as your hands betray you, pulling him closer. "She'll be wondering what's taking us so long." His chest is rising and falling deeply as he drops his head on your shoulder, arms still loosely encircling you. Your leg slides from around his hip and you stumble a little as you right yourself. 

He helps you stand properly, letting you grip his arm for balance. You sigh deeply, pulling your hair away from your face, straightening your skirt and adjusting the bodice. You lick your lips, tasting tea and spice, blushing. You turn to him, raising your eyebrows. "Well? How do I look?"

"Like you just got out of bed," he says with a grin. "Someone _else's_ bed," he adds, and you punch his shoulder, blushing. "It's your fault."

"I am gladly at fault," he says, smiling at you. "Well, you look no better," you say, turning your nose up at him. He brushes his tunic down, smoothing it down for wrinkles. "Better?"

"Not much." You reach out, brushing his hair back. You've missed touching him. "But a little better. It'll still be clear to everyone what we were doing, though." 

"Who cares?" he asks, grinning crookedly. His fingers reach out, adjusting the collar of your dress. His fingers brush the skin of your neck and you shiver involuntarily. 

He abruptly withdraws his hand. "Come on," he says. "Let's get out of this room."

+++

Conversation hangs in the air, like a swarm of butterflies, filling the room. This ballroom is high-ceilinged, a vaulted dome that makes the room seem bigger. There's so many people in the room that it looks like a blur of crepe and velvet and gauze, pastels and darks and shimmers.

You're sweating slightly in your dress, which is such a pale blue it looks white, the bodice encrusted with icy gems and sequins, while the skirt is plain but voluminous, ruffles and ribbons that reach your toes. You blow a strand of hair out of your face, bored. 

"Hi, Y/N," says a familiar voice, and you turn to see Yraena, resplendent in a silver dress that makes her hair look like curls of fire. "Have you seen Frerin?"

"Frerin?" You squint into the crowd. "I saw him a second ago, talking to Dís. Why?"

She grimaces. "My mother wants to talk to him."

"Right. Well, he's probably somewhere over there," you say, gesturing to where you'd seen him. "Do you need me there?" 

Her face softens into a smile. "No, thank you," she says. "I can handle this." 

You pat her arm. "You go, girl. You're going to kill it."

She frowns. "Kill what?"

You sigh. "Never mind."

Once she disappears into the crowd, you look boredly along the assembled, most of whom you've never seen. Or maybe you have seen them, but you didn't remember their faces. Or you have seen them and you do remember them, but they're wearing so much makeup you can't recognize them. One of the three. 

You straighten suddenly, sitting up straight as you see two familiar figures walking arm in arm—one is tall and slender, with inky black hair that's arrow-straight and falls till the small of her back, that's held back with a simple band. Her almond-shaped eyes are a bright, piercing violet, ringed with eyeliner that wings upward, making her look like a cat. Her features are sharp and slanting. She's not pretty exactly, but she's striking. 

The other is more familiar. Shorter, slim, curvy and pale, with thick silver curls and eyes so green they look like distilled spring. You stand, eyes following them. You're not the only one—people all over the room are staring and whispering. You grind your teeth, wishing you could yell at everyone to mind their own damn business and leave them alone. 

You sit again, still seething. Even back home, it was so taboo and so blasphemous to be seen with another woman. Why do all societies have to be the same? Same prejudices, same stereotypes, same discriminations. It's too narrow a way to think. 

"Y/N?" asks a voice. "Are you okay?"

You turn, surprised, to see Thorin, frowning at you. You shrug. "Fine; why?"

"You look kind of like you're contemplating the murder of everyone here," he says, and you try to tone down the glare, sighing. "Sorry. It's just—the way everyone is looking at Saelle and Estela, it's terrible."

He looks mildly surprised. "How do you know her name is Estela?"

You cough. "Um, well..." Sighing, you scoot closer to him and tell him everything you overheard—both times—in a hushed whisper, looking around furtively as you do. Once you've finished, his brows are raised. "Really? Why didn't she tell anyone?"

"Because if she did, they'd look at her like that." You jerk your hear towards the people, blatantly gazing at the two women. Your face twists. "She was scared, and she had the right to be."

"But she's been dangling off my arm for ages," he says, frowning. "All along she's had a lover?"

You swat his arm, blushing. "Don't say 'lover'. It's a weird word."

He looks surprised. "Why not? It's a perfectly acceptable word. It just means someone you've given your heart to."

"It means something different, where I come from."

He looks amused. "Really? What does it mean?" 

Your blush heightens. "It's not important. Anyway, yes, she's been with Estela for a while. She was acting, by the way. With you."

He shakes his head. "She was a pretty good actress," he says. "It was frightening."

"I know. And it wasn't her who wanted the throne, it was Hisa. Guess she was manipulating everyone, even Saelle."

He sighs. "Well, I'm glad we're rid of her. And so is Saelle now, I suppose. If she weren't, she wouldn't be here with Estela."

You nod. "I'm glad I walked out of her class when I did. Imagine if I was still going there now."

"Well," he says with a completely straight face, "at least you'd have something to tell her when she'd ask you what I do to you in bed."

Your face flames. "Oh, stop it." You shove his arm lightly. He laughs, brushing back a strand of hair from your forehead. "I know I've said it before, but you're lots of fun to tease."

You make an annoyed sound in the back of your throat, still blushing a little. "And where I come from," you say, turning to him, "the word 'lover' refers to someone you're sleeping with outside your marriage, behind your spouse's back." You raise a brow. "So don't say it, at least not to me."

He laughs again. "Really? That's what it means? Odd, that the same word can have two totally different meanings but in the same context."

"Mmhmm." You lean your head back against your chair. "It is odd."

His fingers brush the back of your knuckles, just light enough to coax a shiver from you. Ever so slowly his hand laces with yours, warmth bleeding through your veins as he does. You turn your head to look at him, and he says nothing, just smiles a little, merely a tilt to his lips and nothing more. But it's the most beautiful thing you've ever seen. Slowly, you tip your head up and smile back. 

You're home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seems like a pretty good place to end this, doesn't it?
> 
> Kidding.
> 
> There are a few chapters left, don't worry! However, this story is coming to an end, and very soon, too. Thank you all for reading! I'd love a review. ;) <3


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Love is composed of a single soul inhabiting two bodies."_
> 
> _–Aristotle_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why do I feel like this took forever?  
> Sorry for the delay, everyone, I had tests all week. I'm free this week, however, and please do expect an update sometime late this week! Hope you enjoy this chapter! I'd love a review. ;)

You push the ornate, heavy doors open, as quietly as you can. They're made of wood, a dark, polished mahogany that gleams dully with age. Ornate carvings make up half the space, etched all over with runes and sigils. A heavy brass knocker sits in the middle, in the shape of an eagle. The metal ring is clutched in its beak. 

The doors slide open soundlessly on smooth, oiled metal hinges. A warm wind blows through, and you shiver, the sensation pleasant against your skin. You step inside, allowing the doors to fall shut behind you with the faintest of faintest clicks. 

Torches flicker to life before your eyes, lighting up the space inside with a merry golden glow. Your eyes take a moment to adjust, and when they finally do your jaw drops. 

When Thorin had said _library_ , you'd expected something akin to your local bookstore down the block back at home. Maybe as big as your average church, and since it's inside a Mountain, no windows. 

You were most certainly not expecting a massive, cavernous space, dominated by towering shelves that are so high that the tops are lost in shadow. There are windows—tall, arching stained-glass windows that are set high up, letting faint, murky light filter through. You can't see the walls; they're covered with shelves, shelves and more shelves, all lined with hundreds of books, arranged painstakingly in alphabetical order according to author, genre, language, year... 

You spin in a slow circle, trying to take it all in. The floor is rich plum carpet, and there are wooden tables with lamps on them set at regular intervals. The comforting, familiar smell of paper, ink and leather fills you with nostalgia, and you sigh, feeling warm and fuzzy inside. 

You walk along the shelves, trailing a hand along the well-worn spines of the books as you do. You head to the section where there are books in Westron, and you stand up on tiptoe to reach one. You tip it backwards into your hands, reverently opening it in a careful hand, admiring the thin yet strong pages, the careful writing inside. 

"Careful with that," says a voice. 

You jump, turning around, the book clutched protectively in your hands. Standing behind you is a small, unfamiliar dwarf, smiling at you a bit gingerly. He's cute, with mousy hair and an even mousier beard, wispy and nebulous whiskers on his cheeks, which are spattered with freckles. He nods at you, coming forward. 

"That's an old edition," he says, voice hushed. "See this?" He turns the book over in your hands, showing you the spine. There's a small crown stamped into the leather in gold, and it gleams. "That means it's a first edition. We've got quite a few here." He smiles at you, clearly proud. 

"It's a lovely library," you say honestly. "I've never seen anything like it."

He drops you a small bow, beaming. "Quite," he says. "It's the finest library in Middle-earth."

"Are you in charge of it?"

He nods proudly. "Ori, at your service," he says, bowing again. "Scribe and librarian extraordinaire."

"Nice to meet you, Ori." You smile. "I'm Y/N."

He nods, blushing. "I know," he says. "I'm a friend of Thorin's."

"He's the one who told me about this place." You look around. "I can't believe I never came here sooner. I love books. And libraries."

"I could tell," he says, still blushing. "The way you were holding the book," he explains upon seeing your puzzled face. "Careful, but not too careful, like you knew its worth, but also its strength. We keep our books in excellent condition here." He puffs out his chest. "It's a passion of mine, keeping books," he says. "It took about a year and a half to arrange all of these the way they are now."

You stare at him. "You took a year and a half to arrange this?"

He gives you a slightly gap-toothed grin. "Eight hours a day, seven days a week," he says. You whistle, laughing. "Wow. I know a hundred people who wouldn't last a month."

"Well, now you know one person who would." He smiles bashfully at you. "I came here looking for a job, and the king was kind enough to let me do this; I was the only one who volunteered. Over five million volumes, just in this one room." He sighs contentedly. 

"It's beautiful." You run your thumb over the leather binding of the book, feeling the supple softness of it, the title stamped in gold across the cover and spine. "You don't only have history books, do you?"

"Of course not." He reaches up carefully for a thick volume bound in royal blue. The title is embossed in silver. "We have fiction, for children and adults alike. Adventure, romance, you name it, we have it here. This is a personal favorite." He hands you the book and you take it, opening it carefully. "It's a fairy tale," you say, surprised. 

"You'll never find anything like it." He brushes his hair out of his eyes. "Though we have our fair share of history books as well," he says. "Not many people read them, except maybe one person. Borrows about fifteen at a time, and he reads them all." He giggles. "He's probably borrowed the whole history section, of all the languages, at least five times."

"Let me guess who," you say, amused. "Faryn?"

He blinks. "How did you know?"

You smile. "He used to be a teacher of sorts. He still is." 

"He's an odd man, Faryn," says Ori. "Never really talks to anyone much. He mostly keeps to himself, and he collects books too. He's got a little library of his own in his room."

"They're mostly science and history books, though." You heft the book in your arms, loving the weight of it. You look down at it, the rich blue of the leather glowing warmly in the light. 

"You can sit here and read," Ori says, steering you towards a small central hearth, with squashy armchairs surrounding it and lamps hanging from the ceiling right above. There's a mellow fire roaring in the grate, and it exudes homeliness and warmth. You relax just looking at it. "And the library is open all day and all night. You can leave whenever you want, but remember to shelf the book in exactly the right place after." With a cheery wave and another bow, he vanishes amidst the maze of shelves.

You seat yourself in the squashiest armchair directly in front of the fire, opening the book where a silver silk bookmark is tucked between the pages. _The Forgotten Princess_ , reads the title. You smile a little to yourself and start to read.

+++

"How far is this hall?" you ask, exasperated. You and Thorin have been walking for what seems like years, moving steadily downwards deeper into the Mountain. "Are we even going in the right direction?"

"I'm pretty sure we are," he says, sounding only a little worried. "Dís said it's a bit farther in. We should have reached by now, but..." He shrugs. "Doesn't matter. We'll be there soon."

"You don't sound convinced," you observe. He rolls his eyes in reply. 

"I can't believe the huge bash is in, like, three days," you sigh, fingering one of your braids. "It's sort of scary. I still can't believe it's happening. I don't think I will believe it's happening until it is really happening."

He snorts. "I never thought I'd see the day when Frerin, for all his tantrums and stubbornness, is getting married. He never seemed like the marrying type. I always assumed he'd be an eternal bachelor or something."

"But when you're the heir to the throne I guess that's not an option," you say. 

"I know, but I still sort of thought that. He's had a lot of girlfriends, sure, but they never lasted very long."

"Did you have any girlfriends?" You grin up at him teasingly. To your amusement, he blushes. "Well... I mean, it's not as if—none of it was—"

"It's okay," you laugh. "I'm not going to go all jealous-bride mode. And I'd be surprised if you _didn't_ have any girlfriends. Handsome dwarf like you, prince of Erebor and all... You were probably the kingdom's most eligible bachelor till I showed up." You bump his shoulder with yours playfully. 

"Ha ha." He makes a face at you, but he's smiling a little too. "Lucky me, hmm?" you ask, adjusting your sleeves. "I had to endure all the weepy girls whose hearts and hopes you crushed by agreeing to marry me."

"Did you really?" He looks highly amused. 

"Mmhmm. It was ridiculous. They didn't even know you."

"Well, neither did you, towards the beginning."

"At least I made an effort." You wave a hand in the air dismissively. "I mean, I used to hate you, before, but you grew on me." You quiet for a few seconds. "If I told my past self what was going to happen here, and what I would do, she'd laugh in my face." You smile wistfully. "That girl wasn't used to all this attention. Sometimes she still isn't." You sigh. "Sometimes she still feels like all this is a dream, and one day she'll wake up and it... it'll all be gone." 

"Y/N," he says softly. He puts a hand on your shoulder, stopping you. He brushes your hair out of your face, a simple, tender gesture that still makes electricity crackle through your body. You're suddenly very aware of how close you're standing to him, and how you can see every individual brushstroke of his dusky lashes against his pale skin. "You look so sad," he says quietly, cupping your face in his palm. 

"I'm not," you whisper. "This life—it's better than I ever could have dreamed."

His lips brush yours, just barely enough pressure to make your toes curl. "What if it is just a dream?" he breathes.

You reach for him. "Then it's the best dream ever."

You've only just started kissing when a low, tolling bell starts to ring somewhere deep in the Mountain, loud and insistent enough to signal that it's something important. You start, surprised, nearly falling forward. His arms encircle you, holding you up as you blush and mumble a thanks. "I think we should get to the hall now," you say breathlessly as the bell continues to ring. "Before Dís decides to check on us and doesn't even see us there."

"I don't want to think about what she'd say for that," he sighs, pulling you to your feet and righting you as you sway slightly. "Come on."

About fifteen minutes later you reach the hall, whose doors are flung open. It already seems ready, draped with flags and sashes and flowers. You touch a pale blue blossom as you walk inside, the petals smooth and cool against your fingers. The air is filled with their fragrant scent, tinging it with sweetness. 

Inside, the massive hall is empty, but it's full to bursting with decorations and chairs and tables, making it seem smaller, though it still dwarfs the ballroom and the other halls you've been to so far. "It's huge," you say, craning your neck to look up at the ceiling. "How many people does this place fit?"

"Over five thousand," says a voice, and you both turn to see a short, squat, gray-haired dwarf bouncing towards you, beaming. "And it's compete with a dining hall as well." He sweeps into a gracious bow, straightening with a smile. "Dori, at your service," he says. "Have you come to check on the hall?"

"Dís wants to see if it's ready yet," says Thorin, glancing around. "So, yes, we are." 

"Well, I'm sure you can tell the princess there's nothing to worry about," he says, glancing a the room proudly. "The hall is completely set up."

"It looks amazing," you say, walking towards a sprig of flowers hung from the ceiling. "How long did it take you to do all this?"

He smiles, and there's something familiar about his face suddenly, like you've seen him before. "It took about a week," he says. "But anything for prince Frerin—he's been a good prince and a good friend to us all." He smiles beatifically. 

You glance at the center aisle, which is richly carpeted in white, and the same colored roses adorning the top. "So this'll match Yraena's dress?" You gesture vaguely at the roses. 

Dori frowns. "Of course not. The princess will be dressed in blue and silver, the colors of Durin. It is tradition for her to wear her new House colors the day of her wedding. For the dinner afterwards, she will wear her own House colors, as a mark of respect and nostalgia."

You look at him, startled. "She's not going to wear white?"

He stares at you. "It is unlucky for a bride to wear white," he says. "It is a color of death and bleakness for dwarves. To wear it on one's wedding is a blasphemous act."

"Really? I could've sworn..." You trail off. "Well, anyway. The hall looks great, but it'll take everyone a while to get here." You turn to Thorin. "Anything we should tell Dís?"

"I don't think so," he says, examining the golden sashes draped on the walls. "I think everything's fine."

"You should make a trip back to princess Dís," advises Dori, adjusting the roses on the wall. "It's havoc where she is, and I don't think the princess needs any more headaches than she has already. Perhaps a discreet visit would do." He smiles at you, and again you're struck by that familiarity. "Make it quick," he adds, "if you want to be back by dinner."

"Right," you say distractedly. 

With one last look at the shimmering hall, you both leave, the ornate doors closing behind you. Just before it does you hear Dori humming as he straightens the tables along the walls. You turn to Thorin, who has a little grin on his face. "He's a little..."

"Tenacious?"

"Entirely."

"Dori is like that. He's a bit of a perfectionist, which is why he's just the man for this sort of job. Dís chose wisely. That, or he volunteered."

"I think the latter is more likely," you say, and his lips quirk up. "Me too."

"So... where to now? To see Dís? Where will she be?"

He rubs a hand across his face. "She'll be in the office," he says. "And she won't take kindly to us bothering her, even if she asked us to. We should just get it over with."

"You think she'll get mad?" you ask as you walk. He shrugs. "She's been ill-tempered constantly for the past week," he says. "There's a certain guarantee of her throwing at least one thing across the room when we go."

"Why not?" you ask nervously. 

"If you're lucky, it'll be a quill or papers or something." He runs a hand through his hair, the strands sliding through his fingers. 

"And if you're unlucky?"

"An ink pot, a vase, a paperweight. You never know, with Dís."

You stare at him. "I can't tell if you're kidding or not."

He grins at you. "You'll see for yourself."

+++

You knock on the door and push it open hesitantly. "Hey, Dís, it's—"

Something comes flying from across the room from the desk, hitting the wall. Looking at it, you see a heavy looking book. "What do you want?" she shouts. She sounds furious. "How many times should I tell you that I am not asking for any replacements? This is the fourth time today, and if you come here one more time, so help me, I will stick this quill down your—" She blinks. "Y/N?"

"Um, hi." You step inside cautiously. "Thorin and I went to the hall."

"I—I see. Forgive me, I thought you were that idiot, who kept coming here asking me to hire him. Foolish man. I'd already told him not to ask again..." She shakes her head. "Well?"

"It looks ready," says Thorin, who's leaning against the door a safe distance away. "Dori has outdone himself."

She cracks a wan smile. "As usual. He never disappoints. How does it look?"

"It's certainly big enough," you say. "And it looks great."

"Has he used white roses?"

You and Thorin trade quick glances. "Yes."

She exhales. "That's at least one thing that went well, then." She closes her eyes. "So much to do, and so little time. Well, thank you, you two. You can have tomorrow off, and then it's going to be the real thing." She shudders. "I can't imagine what'll happen... How much pressure on all of you. And me," she adds as an afterthought. 

She waves you away. "Off you go, then. It's already late, and you need your sleep."

"So do you," points out Thorin.

She waves him off again. "I haven't slept for a month. After the wedding, that's it. I have a six-month long appointment with my royal chambers." She sighs. "And then, of course, the preparations for your wedding..." She groans. "I'm not going to think about that. Go on, go on, I have work to do!" She herds you out, shutting the door with a snap.

"Told you," says Thorin. "She threw that book."

"Only because she thought I was someone else."

"She still threw something."

"It doesn't count, since she didn't throw it at me."

"Technically, she did."

"Whatever."

You reach your room, and you scowl at him. "Why do you always insist on walking me to my room?" you ask, crossing your arms across your chest. "Your room is in the opposite direction."

He shrugs fluidly. "It's polite. And I'm your fiancé, I'm supposed to walk you around."

"How very sexist of you."

"If it were a man I was engaged to I'd walk him around too," he informs you. "It's a necessity. And Dís would murder me if I didn't keep an eye on you at all times. She'd skin me if I so much as looked away from you for five minutes."

"I don't think you mind exactly, though," you say, grinning. 

"Of course not. If it gives me an innocent reason to look at you..." He fixes you with his crystalline blue gaze, his eyes sweeping up the length of you, down to your feet, then up to your face again. They linger slightly on the curve of your hips and the vulnerable sweep of your throat, but to his credit it's your eyes on which he lingers the longest. By the time he's done your face feels hot and your skin feels like it's crawling. 

"I'd gladly look at you all day," he says, and it might be your imagination, but his voice sounds slightly rough. His eyes are glittering. You press yourself back against your door, feeling the cold wood press against your spine. 

He regards you almost thoughtfully, his gaze unreadable. You glare at him despite the blush on your cheeks. "Don't make me ask," you say crossly. "Or are you going to make me come over there?"

"You're most welcome to come here," he says, looking amused. You roll your eyes, but step forward and grab his collar, pulling him towards you, your other arm wrapping around his shoulders, pushing yourself up as your lips find his. He softens under your touch, his hands pressing to the small of your back as both of you push to get closer. You never get tired of kissing Thorin. 

He presses you gently against your door, his hands coming to rest on your hips, crushing the delicate crepe roses on your dress as his teeth graze your lips. Your fingers weave into his hair, tugging slightly, and it's exactly what you wanted; his lips part as he gasps, and you push your tongue into his mouth, taking control of the kiss as your hands curve around his shoulders. 

"Maybe we should go inside," he says breathlessly against your lips. "Mmm," you say in reply, feeling behind you for the doorknob. Locating it, you twist and push, and you both stumble into the half-lit room, off-balance. The door slams loudly behind you, but you hardly hear it. You laugh at your own clumsiness as you wrap your arms around him, your eyes falling shut as he kisses you again. Your head feels like it's spinning, your thoughts all nebulous. 

"I have a bed, you know," you breathe, pulling away. "Just thought I should let you know."

His eyes search yours. "Y/N—"

You pull him towards it by the hand, seating him on the edge. "Shh," you say, putting a finger on his lips. You kick your shoes off, then sling a leg over his hip, his hands gripping your hips as your knees curve around his waist, your elbows resting on his shoulders. "Don't talk," you say. "Just kiss me."

He acquiesces, pulling you closer. For a few minutes you just share in each other's warmth and breath, trading soft, gentle kisses, exploratory and curious. Then his fingers wrap around your arms, pulling you down. You yelp as you lose balance and fall on top of him, his back hitting the mattress and you on top of him. He rolls you over on your side, his hand fitting into the bend of your waist, his other hand resting on your cheek. 

You allow yourself to drown in the kisses, the wordless language of them, the intoxicating feeling of his nearness and his breath, and his hands plucking all the right strings on your body to make your nerves catch fire. 

It feels like an eternity later when you draw away, slowly enough to feel his every breath on your lips as you do. You blink at him dazedly, and he pulls you close again, a sigh escaping your lips as you press up against him in all the right places. 

"I can't believe the big wedding is nearly here already," you mumble against his chest. "It feels like yesterday that I fell out of the sky in front of the gates."

"It does feel like yesterday," he sighs. "That was the same day my father decided to tie us together, wasn't it?" He snorts. "It didn't seem to take him too long to decide what to do with you."

"Yeah, well." You snuggle closer to him. "Joke's on him."

"How so?"

"I think he meant for us to have a marriage based entirely on politics and hiding and lying. He saw how we sort of despised each other and he didn't really care, as long as we gave what he asked. But... I don't think any of us—even me and you—expected not to mind in the end."

"That I do not." His fingers play absently with your hair, twisting the strands between his fingers. "I still remember that day you arrived, wearing these odd clothes and with an odd hairstyle and an odd way of speaking. You were something else, something so different. Nobody quite knew what to make of you. And when my father decided to do what he did, I knew even less." 

"You all looked pretty strange to me, too," you say, rolling onto your back and staring up at the ceiling with Thorin's shoulder pressed against yours. "And you live in a _mountain_. That's bound to look weird to a city girl. Even if I lived in the woods."

"You did?" He sounds surprised. "I didn't know."

You bite your lip. "I guess I haven't told you much about my other life, have I?"

"Well, you haven't told me anything about it. I understand, it must have been hard for you to leave it all behind, with no way to go back."

"It was, in the beginning, but... I realized, later, that there wasn't anything for me to go back to. No parents, no siblings, no pets, nothing. No one."

"Not even a boyfriend?" He sounds teasing, and you huff, rolling your eyes. "Not even a boyfriend."

You take a deep breath. "Well, I had a job, but I was... I guess I should say 'overqualified', for it. I was happy where I was, in my parents' old house, alone and far away from the city. I didn't really have friends, not close ones, and those who were close lived too far away. I never enjoyed company, which, I guess, is why I never dated, and all the people I'd known were getting married, having kids, settling down... And I was just not part of any of it. I was in my own little bubble, separate from the rest of the world."

"That sounds like a lonely existence," he says, his voice soft. 

"It was peaceful, but it did get lonely sometimes. I convinced myself that it was what I wanted, and sometimes I even believed it. But..."

"But what?"

"But I needed someone to share it with. I didn't realize that until it was too late. And when I fell here, I was furious. I was furious at myself, because when I realized I'd left everything behind, I was relieved. I could reinvent myself here, make a new person, someone people could like. I was ready to leave my life behind, and with that life, I was ready to leave myself behind, too. Create a new person, a new Y/N, someone... different." You sound bitter.

"And did you do that?" he asks quietly. 

"No," you say on an exhale of breath. "No, I didn't."

"Why not?"

"Too much had changed in my life. I was the only thing that remained to remind me of what I lost. If that was gone, too... It would destroy the memory of everything I left behind. I couldn't do that to myself. Or the memory of my parents. I'm still me."

"So who I see now... She's the real you." He's looking at you, and the intensity of his gaze makes your cheeks flame. "You've always seen me as just me," you say softly. "From the moment you saw me, I have belonged to you completely. I only realized that now."

He smiles at you, a small, secret smile that fills you with warmth. You lace your fingers with his, feeling the heat of his skin against yours. "Just as I belong to you," he says. "With all that entails, of course."

"You mean your occasional crabbiness."

"My almost-constant crabbiness, I mean." 

You grin at him. "Don't worry, I love you even when you're at your crabbiest."

"Thank Mahal for that." His fingers touch your cheek, soft and caressing. You lean into his touch, closing your eyes. You feel him start to get up, and blurt out, "Thorin?"

"What is it, love?" His thumb traces the arch of your cheekbone. 

"Can you stay?" You open your eyes, biting your lip. A small smile crosses his face, then he settles back down again, next to you on the mattress. "All right," he says, "I'll stay."

"Thank you." You feel him stretch out carefully next to you, clearly mindful of what he can and can't do. Your fingers are still linked, the only parts of you that are touching, bridging the gap between your bodies. You turn towards him, watching the firelight play across his features, transforming his face into a landscape of light and shadow, of dark and light. 

"Good night, Thorin," you say softly.

He looks at you. "Good night, Y/N."

+++

You wake up the next morning surrounded by warmth.

You open your eyes blearily, blinking the blurriness out of your eyes. You know immediately that you're not alone—you feel a slight, but noticeable pressure on your hand, the mattress is slightly dipped on the other side, and you can hear even, measured breaths. 

You turn, watching Thorin as he sleeps. You've never seen him asleep before; he looks achingly young, his face calm and peaceful, his eyelashes feathering down on his cheeks. His lips are slightly parted, and his hair is tangled around his head. Your hand is still in his, like it was all night. His chest rises and falls rhythmically with his breaths.

Almost as if he senses you watching him, he begins to stir, his eyes opening. You note a split-second of panic on his face as he doesn't immediately recognize his surroundings, then his features soften, his fingers closing around yours tighter. He turns, looking at you, and he sighs, then smiles at you. The warm, buttery aura of sleep is still clinging to him, making his eyes darker, his gaze heavier. 

"Hi," you murmur, turning fully towards him. He twines his hand more tightly around yours, pressing your entwined fingers to his cheek, closing his eyes. "Hi," he replies softly. 

"You stayed," you note, your fingers grazing his cheek, feeling the roughness of his beard against your skin. He nods without opening his eyes. "Of course I stayed."

"I thought maybe it wasn't... proper."

"I don't care if it isn't proper," he says, letting out a breath. "You asked me to be here, so I was here." His eyes are still closed.

Your heart aches. "Thorin?"

"Mmm?" 

"I love you."

His lips curve up into a smile. He tugs on your hand, closing the distance between you within seconds as he draws you forward and presses his lips to yours. You go pliant instantly, your lips parting beneath his as your arms wrap around him. Once you've thoroughly ravaged each other with your mouths he lets you go, and you let out a fluttering sigh, melting into him. 

"I love you too," he says. 

You hum, holding him tighter and burying your face into his chest. "This is officially the best thing I've ever woken up to," you say. 

"Likewise." His hands draw slow circles on your lower back, making slow waves of heat travel through your body. You relax, your legs tangling with his. 

"I just hope Lyvya doesn't walk in," you say. "She'd spontaneously combust of embarrassment and then apologize profusely for something she didn't do."

He laughs, and you feel it vibrate through his chest and yours. "Not to mention the whole kingdom will know by breakfast that I slept in your room."

"And no doubt they'll make up all sorts of ridiculous nonsense about what we did." You sigh. "Maybe we shouldn't have..."

"You think I'd miss the opportunity to see you with bed hair?" He grins at you, a recklessly happy schoolboy grin that makes a tendril of something warm curl up in your chest. "You'd need a stronger man than me to waive something like that."

"Hilarious," you sniff, trying not to smile. "And as for you, it doesn't matter if you've got bed hair or not, since it's always this messy anyway." You twine one of his braids around your finger. 

"I think you look better like this," he says, indicating your disheveled appearance. "No fancy dresses, no elaborate hairstyle, no makeup. You look more like you."

"I like it better this way, too." You stretch, arching your back languorously. "Those dresses are heavy and the makeup is annoying and the hair is too fancy. I should just be allowed to wander around in pajamas every day."

"That would be quite interesting. And not to mention scandalous." He raises a brow. "Flaunting your ankles."

You blink, flummoxed. "My ankles? What's wrong with my ankles?"

"Nothing," he assures you. "Usually it's considered extremely improper for a woman to flaunt her ankles."

"Wow." You throw the covers aside, examining your legs. "Well, nobody is here now." You bunch your skirt in your hands, yanking it up, baring your feet and ankles to the cool air. You lift your legs, the skirt falling around your knees as you do, displaying your ankles very clearly. 

"Y/N," he hisses, grabbing your hand. "What are you doing—"

"Honestly, it's just my ankles! What is so horrible about showing off my ankles?" You frown at him and he shrugs. "No idea. Maybe you should ask Lady Hisa."

"Because she's definitely jumping at the opportunity to speak to me again." You lower your ankles, sighing. "See? It's perfectly fine. It's not scandalous or anything if I take off my shoes. Now if I took off my _corset_ that's a totally different story—"

"Y/N." He shakes his head, but he's clearly suppressing a smile. "While I'd love to hear the end of that sentence, I should get going."

"Yeah, maybe you should, before someone sees you." You sit up, scraping your hair back into a messy bun. He sits up too, his clothes wrinkled beyond repair. You can't hold back a smile as you watch him, that warmth of sleep still lingering around him. 

"See you soon," you say, leaning against your doorframe. "And make sure nobody sees you leave, or we'll have too many questions before long."

He leans down, stealing a quick kiss. "Do you care?"

You blush. "Yes!"

"Fine, then." He tries to smooth his shirt, to no avail. You watch him leave, and once he's gone you close your door, smiling to yourself as you sidle into the bathroom, your head buzzing with happiness. 

Life is good.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"The best thing to hold onto in life is each other."_
> 
> _–Audrey Hepburn_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, it's been, like, a week. O.o  
> I'm so sorry, I wasn't busy but I wasn't inspired, either. Whoops! But here's the chapter, and this time actually expect the next one soon. :D  
> Hope you like it, and I'd love a review!

"How's this one?" 

Lyvya holds up a heavy off-white colored gown, the hem and cuffs dripping with heavy lace and creamy silk, pearls gleaming dully on the bodice. The neck is low, but the sleeves are full and lacy, intending to show off your arms. You make a face. 

"If I wear that I'll be more dressed than the bride," you say. "Definitely not that."

She hums, tossing it away carelessly. "I suppose," she says. "What about this?" She shows you another one, this time a dark, intriguing pink, somewhere between magenta and purple. Black embroidery adorns the bodice, and the skirt is ruffled, held back with a black ribbon. 

"Too colorful," she says without waiting for a reply from you, and tosses it above the cream colored one. "This?" she asks, holding up yet another gown. It's a pale blue, with simple white lace on the neck. The skirt is light and flouncy, and it's got short sleeves. 

"Too plain," she says, and tosses that one away, too. You frown at her. "Nothing's perfect. I'm sure it won't matter too much what I've got on—"

"No, no, it matters very much!" Her hands flutter around, like pale butterflies. "You're the bride's sister-in-law, of course it matters what you wear." She wrings her hands. "I don't suppose there's anything in this whole Mountain you could wear that's appropriate."

"Come on, Lyvya, don't be like that." You flop onto your back on the covers, sighing. "I'm sure you'll find something for me to wear."

"Miss!" She looks exasperated. "The wedding is tomorrow!"

"You'll find it by tomorrow," you say. "You're special that way."

"Well, that's all very sweet of you, miss, but I really do need to find you something to wear." She sighs, sitting cross-legged on the ground. "The princess was most emphatic about it."

"Who, Dís?" You wave a hand. "I'm pretty sure she's going to be looking for a dress tomorrow about five minutes before the wedding starts."

"Well, I don't want that to happen to you!" She stands, rifling through the closet again. You slump back down, blowing out a breath. "Well, anyway," you say, "I still can't believe it's tomorrow. It's sort of surreal."

"All those months of preparation will pay off, then, won't it, miss?" She's examining a brilliant scarlet dress with black gems encrusted on it. You nod, though she can't see you. "It was a total nightmare. All those classes and dancing lessons... I'm so glad it'll all come to use now."

"You just wait, miss," she says. "Your own wedding is coming up, you'll need four times the preparation you had for this one."

You shudder. "Don't even tell me about it. If I'm so tense for Yraena's and Frerin's wedding, how will I cope with my own wedding?"

"I'm sure it'll be fine as well, miss." She holds up another dress. "At least you're more open to getting married at all, as opposed to how you were a few months ago."

"Definitely," you sigh. "A few months ago I hated Thorin. Marrying him would have been the worst thing that had ever happened to me."

"And now?" You detect a note of teasing in her voice and studiously ignore it. "Now I don't mind," you say. 

"That's excellent, miss." She beams at you. "Oh, I'm so very happy for you!" She clasps your hands in hers, her blue-green eyes sparkling like the sea they so resemble. "And I'm also quite proud," she says. "You've grown into such a lady in your time here, and now that you've resolved everything it'll be quite a happy ending." 

"Oh, I don't know about a happy ending," you laugh. "But you know what? I'm kind of proud of myself, too. And you, too. If it weren't for you I still wouldn't know the names of half the nobles in the court."

She blushes. "I'm here to serve, miss."

You grin at her. "Once Thorin and I are married," you say, "I'll refuse every single maid they give me, because I only need you. I just know you'll be better than anyone they want to throw at me. Even if they give me eight others, it won't sum up to one Lyvya."

She blushes harder. "Miss, don't say such things!" she says. "It's not proper."

"Well, what if I don't care if it isn't proper?" You raise your eyebrows. "If Thorin can sleep in my room before we're married, I can have one maid, can't I?"

She gapes at you. "He _what_? Oh, miss Y/N!" She looks scandalized. "That's not allowed, that isn't! When did you...?"

You frown. "Last night. And we didn't do anything, you know, we just slept. If I were you I'd be proud of my self-restraint."

"But miss!" Her eyes are wide. "You're not even married yet!"

"I know," you say, rolling your eyes. "It doesn't matter, you know. I barely touched him."

She's still pink around the cheeks. "It doesn't matter, miss! I only hope nobody else finds out, then it'll be a right scandal for them to gossip about."

"Really, you dwarves are so prudish sometimes," you say, frowning. "If we'd done more than just slept, I'd be worried. We barely touched, much less... you know."

She shakes her head, still blushing. "Make sure not to tell a soul, miss," she says, nodding. "We don't want this to get out."

You throw your hands up in the air, shaking your head. "Whatever you say, Lyvya. But I still think it's ridiculous." You get up off your bed, moving over to the closet. "Why is it such a big deal, anyway?"

"Well, it's not... not right, for two people soon to be married to... to be..." She seems to be having difficulty in saying it. "To be _intimate_ with each other before the wedding," she says, coloring a deep scarlet as she does. "It's frowned down upon."

"Like... not even remotely intimate?" You blink at her. She shakes her head. "Not too much, if you know what I mean, miss. The wedding night is said to be sacred for the couple."

"Oh." You flush when you remember the kitchens, the sorting room, and even here, in your room, last night. Were all those times overstepping a line? 

"Miss," says Lyvya in a shrewd tone. "What are you hiding?"

"Nothing!" You blush again. "Just... nothing."

"I see." She raises a brow at you. "Nothing too serious, I hope?"

You shake your head mutely. She lets it go, but that shrewd look is still in her eyes when she closes the closet door. "Anyhow," she says, "you ought to take some rest now, miss. The wedding is tomorrow and you need all the energy you can spare."

"Mmm." You sigh, moving towards the door. "I think I'll walk around for a while. I need to talk to a few people, anyway."

"Remember, be back before dinner!" she calls, and you close the door behind you.

+++

"Hi," you say to Faryn.

He jumps, nearly spilling ink all over his notes. "Y/N! Don't scare me like that!"

You slide into the seat next to him. "Sorry. You did say once that your door would always be open to me, though." You sit back, smiling genially. 

He rolls his eyes. "So I did. What brings you to my humble abode?"

You shrug. "Nothing, really. I just wanted to see a familiar face."

He inspects you. "Isn't it the wedding tomorrow?"

You nod, and he sits back, tapping the desk with a finger. "Time has flown, hasn't it?" He sighs. "It all seems so surreal. And yet I'm still no closer to finding out why you're here." He taps the desk faster. "Though I do have a notion, and it's growing stronger by the day." He frowns at you, putting on his glasses. "No more dreams, I take it?"

You sigh, shaking your head. "They've just... stopped altogether. I haven't had one for weeks. I'm beginning to think something is wrong. Before it was just empty, nothing there and no wind or anything, but now it's just... gone. All of it." You bite your lip, looking at him. "What's your notion?"

He makes a face. "I can't tell you until I have solid evidence."

"And what evidence is that?"

"One of your dreams. I'm waiting for something to happen that can possibly connect my theory to the dreams you've been having. But if nothing is happening... It's at a standstill."

You sigh moodily. "Great."

He doesn't seem to get your sarcasm. "Hardly. It's quite the opposite, actually. But as for my equations..." He holds up a sheet covered in numericals. "I'm sure now that they make zero sense." And with that, he promptly tears it in half, then into quarters. He flings them away, letting them sift to the ground. 

"Faryn!" You blink at the pieces of paper on the ground. "Your calculations—"

"Don't matter anymore," he says. "If I'm right—which I'm sure I am—they're meaningless."

"Tell me what you think," you wheedle. "If you do, maybe it'll be easier for me."

"Not going to work," he says, smiling at you. "This theory I'm keeping to myself until I'm sure of it, and that can only be done after a dream confirms it."

"And you're sure a dream will confirm it?"

"Positive." He sighs, rubbing a hand across his face. A bit of ink smears on his cheek as he does. "Anyway, enough talk about this. How are the preparations for the wedding going?"

You shrug enigmatically. "All right, I guess. It's a little tense, but it's actually going fine. Everything's ready, and it's all in place, so we'll just have to see how it all goes on tomorrow."

"Royal weddings are usually all the rage while it's being prepared for," he says. "But it wears off after a while, and then all they'll want is for the couple to give them heirs. It's the stupidest thing about these marriages. Marriage just so that it'll be proper for them to have children later."

"But it's all right if you love the person you're going to marry," you say absently. "I mean, if you are in love with your betrothed, then marriage will be sort of natural, and it won't be a chore. Even kids... they'll want it, so it'll be okay."

"In the rare case that you do love who you're engaged to," he says. 

"Of course."

"And do you?"

You turn to him, startled. "Do I what?"

"Love the man you're engaged to." He looks steadily back at you and you blush. "I do. So, like I said, it's not just going to be an obligation. It's what I want, and what he wants, too."

His eyes spark. "I see. That's good, that's good," he says, clearly distracted. You have the oddest feeling that he asked you that question for a purpose entirely different from idle, friendly banter. You observe him carefully. He gives you a little smile. 

"So," he says, "all ready for tomorrow?"

"Well... not really. I haven't got a dress," you say, stretching. "But I'm sure I'll find one by tomorrow, or tonight."

He raises his eyebrows at you. "Don't have a dress? That could be quite the problem if you let it sit for too long." 

"Whatever." You wave a hand. "Lyvya works miracles with dresses, and I'm hardly lacking in that department. I have enough clothes to dress this whole Mountain and still have a hundred left."

He rolls his eyes. "Your exaggerations know no bounds," he says. "Have you seen Lady Hisa recently?"

You frown at the sudden change in track. "Not since she kicked me out. Why?"

He raises a mysterious eyebrow. "No reason."

"Faryn, if you don't tell me anything, I swear—"

He laughs. "It really is for no reason, Y/N," he says, still giggling a bit. "As for the dream thing, some things must remain secret for your own good, until you find out in your own time." His eyes flash, navy and violet chips in a sea of pale blue. "Some secrets," he says, "are meant to be buried."

+++

You raise a fist, knocking on the door. After a moment, it flies open, and Yraena pokes her head out, smiling. "Hi, Y/N," she says happily. "Come in." She stands aside, letting you inside.

Your mom had used to tell you that you could learn a lot about a person by looking at their room and the way they kept it, how they maintained it, what they put in it. She'd made you clean your room on a weekly basis, and made sure it was perfectly neat so that people would think good things about you. 

That advice certainly doesn't apply to Yraena's room—it's bare and stripped, white walls and a neatly made bed and no books or clothes strewn around, nothing on the walls. The fireplace is bare, and there's nothing there that tells you anything about her. 

She sits cross-legged next to the hearth, and you sit at the vanity table, swinging the chair around to face her. "So, how is everything?" you ask, swinging your legs. "All the preparations."

She sighs, fiddling with her bright red braid. "Everything is going fine, actually," she says. "But I'm really nervous, but happy and excited, at the same time."

"You don't have cold feet, do you?"

She laughs, but it's a little nervous. "I hope not," she says. "I just can't believe I'm getting married tomorrow." She lets out a breath, leaning back in her hands, which are braced behind her. 

"How is your mother about this?" You bite your lip. "She's not... against it, or anything?"

She frowns. "No, she's fine. I think," she adds. "She didn't say anything, to my face at least. I suppose that means she's fine with it." She shrugs. 

"How are you holding up?" You tuck a bit of hair behind your ear. "Is everything okay?"

She exhales. "Marriage is a big step," she says, looking harried. "I've never been with anyone before, simply because I knew someone I'd never met would one day have a claim on me. And when I got engaged to Frerin, I was prepared to have a marriage based solely on politics. We wouldn't be able to look at each other, and then they would ask for heirs, and that's what we would give. Nothing more than that." 

She smiles ruefully. "But he was so kind. He wanted to make the arrangement work out, he wanted to want to marry me at the end. He tried, and I'm afraid at first I was having none of it." She sighs, bowing her head. "He tried to talk to me, but I was distant and rather cold. I was so intent on proving myself right, that an arranged marriage can only ever be cordial and not intimate."

"But that's not all it really is, is it?" you ask quietly. 

"No," she says. "It happened, one day, when he said something, and it made me laugh, and he looked at me with this expression on his face that told me plainly that this was how he'd wanted it to be. Friendly, warm, natural. It was all much easier after that, and then we were walking in the forges one day and he just... kissed me." She blushes at the memory and you smile. 

"It was all a blur from that day onward," she says. "And now, so suddenly, I'm getting married to him." She laughs, a little disbelieving laugh. "And I find that I don't mind at all."

"Well, that's a good thing, isn't it?" You grin at her. "I'm glad."

"Me too." She smiles at you. 

"So, have you got a dress all ready?" You fold your hands on the back of the chair and she nods. "The colors of the House of Durin await me," she sighs. "Tomorrow I leave my past behind."

"Back where I come from, brides wear white," you say, leaning back. 

"White!" She blinks at you. "Isn't that unlucky?"

"No; it denotes purity, and serenity," you say. "What does it denote here?"

"Bleakness," she says. "And death; it is a color of mourning for us. When all life is leached from the world, we get white. It is a bad color for weddings."

"Huh." You frown. "It was like that for us, too, where I come from. But then there was this famous queen who set a trend for wearing white during weddings, and since then it's become a norm, you know? Everyone had to do it."

"Odd," she says, looking curious. 

"Yep." You kick your feet. "How long is the ceremony?"

She shrugs. "From dawn till dusk. It's the most awaited wedding since the king's, after all. Everyone will be expected to stay long after midnight."

"Tomorrow, you will officially be queen of Erebor," you say, wiggling your fingers. "How does it feel?"

"Oh, don't remind me!" She covers her face with her hands, but she's laughing. "The responsibility is too much for me to bear."

"Don't be ridiculous; you'll be amazing." You wave a dismissive hand. "And I'll be there to help you out, anyway."

"Thank Mahal," she laughs. 

"Have you seen Frerin? Did you talk to him?"

"Oh no. It's bad luck for the bride to see the groom two days before the wedding," she says. "I haven't seen him for about three days now."

"What?" You stare at her. "Dwarf culture here is so weird."

She shrugs. "I suppose you'll have to get used to it. There are tons of odd superstitions we follow," she goes on. Counting off on her fingers, she lists them out. "It's considered very lucky if a coronation takes place the same day as a funeral; the crown of the king can't be made of gold, it's bad luck; once a woman is married, if she takes her marriage bead out of her hair, her marriage will end bitterly; you aren't allowed to forge weapons on a waxing crescent moon night on the fifth day and it's bad luck to—"

"Whoa, okay, I got it." Your head spins. "That's crazy."

She laughs. "It's how things are done here. Without these superstitions, it'd be a loose, bland world."

"It's still crazy. There's no scientific reasoning behind any of it, it's just blind faith."

"Sometimes," she says, "blind faith is all we have."

"Still," you say. "There should be reason behind things you do. What's the point, if it's for nothing at all and just your own weird beliefs?"

"Beliefs are powerful," she warns. 

"Only if there's proof behind them."

"You've got a very odd way of thinking," she says, frowning at you. "Here, we're not taught to disobey or question what is written."

"But where I come from, it's encouraged to question. We need answers, and how else to get them but questioning?"

"You don't really need answers," she says. You shrug. "Only if you're content to believe the world is flat and the sun revolves around the earth," you say. 

She looks puzzled. "I didn't understand a word you just said."

You laugh. "I think that's for the best," you say. "Anyway, I won't keep you. You need sleep, and rest. I'll see you in the morning, I'll come here before the ceremony."

She rises from the rug, coming and giving you a hug. "Thanks, Y/N. Good night."

You hug her back. "Good night, Yraena. And good luck."

+++

The bathwater is hot, and soothing and silky. You relax as best as you can, your hair darkening in the water as you sink deeper. It's early—too early, according to you. It's just past four in the morning, and you're already taking a bath. The woes of a princess.

You manage to dry yourself off without falling back asleep, but you count about fifty yawns as you do. Ruffling your still-wet hair, you head into the room, yawning again. 

Lyvya is humming and brushing a dress covered with a gray cloth, and she chirps out a good morning, smiling. You mutter something in reply, stifling another yawn. 

"It's way too early for this," you say blearily, pulling your hair back. "I want to go back to sleep."

"Now, miss, it's already a quarter to five!" She hurries towards you, holding something black. You blink at it a couple of times before it comes into focus. It's a corset. You sigh long-sufferingly, holding your arms out as she fits it over you. It's tighter than normal, and you frown down at it. It clings to you, pushing your breasts up, narrowing your waist and flaring your hips. 

She makes you close your eyes as she takes out the dress, and you do so obediently, waiting patiently as she dresses you in what she's managed to deem worthy for the occasion. It feels silken, like satin, and it's heavy. It's full sleeved, but you can't really tell anything else about it. 

"All right, miss, open your eyes now," she says, and you do, peering into the full-length mirror hanging on the wall. You blink at your reflection, startled; it's the prettiest dress you've ever worn, and that's saying a lot. It's pale gold, shimmering and sparkling, translucent and gauzy. Black sequin traces across the bodice, twisting into intimate patterns. The skirt is full and ruffled, and jet-black with golden ribbon trim, and the back is low but demure. It's exceptionally tight, clinging almost shockingly to your curves and arms, which are covered with netted gold sleeves. The cuffs are black velvet. 

"Wow," is all you can say. "Where in Arda did you find this dress?"

She smirks. "I have my tricks, miss," she says. "Come here now, let me do your makeup."

Contrary to what you'd thought, which is a heap of makeup so strong you wouldn't be able to recognize yourself, Lyvya applies the cosmetics with a light, gentle hand. The eyeliner is bold, sweeping upward and ringing your eyes in gold and black, and the lipstick is a deep red, almost purple. Besides that, it's light and regular, not too much. 

Next is your hair—she braids a single crown into your long hair, and let's the rest go, so that it falls down your back in loose, soft waves. It's simple, and it's perfect. You stand, looking at yourself in the mirror again. You look so much like your mother like this. It makes you sad, but she wouldn't like it if you were thinking about her and feeling so bad. She'd want you to think of her and smile, so that's what you do. 

"It's perfect, Lyvya," you say. "Thank you."

She drops a curtsy. "My pleasure, miss," she says. 

You raise a skeptical brow at the shoes—simple black heels, only about an inch long, with golden straps. "This seems a bit anticlimactic, doesn't it?"

"These are easier to dance in, miss," she says, and you blink, remembering suddenly. "Today is the summer ball, isn't it?" 

She nods, adjusting the hem of your dress. "Yes, today is the summer ball. After the wedding, of course."

"I'd totally forgotten," you sigh. "Today is the huge ball, for dinner, and I'm so unprepared."

"Now, we'll have none of that," says Lyvya. "You'll be fine. Now, the prince should come any moment to escort you, and then after the ceremony you're to come back here to change into your other dress, and then go back again with the prince to the ballroom. All right?"

"Fabulous." You shake your sleeves. "What now?"

As if to answer your question, there's a knock on the door. Lyvya grins at you before opening it, dropping into a quick curtsy and murmuring, "Your Majesty" before hurrying away. 

You turn to face Thorin. "Hi," you say, feeling nervous all of a sudden. You bite the inside of your lip, tasting the tang of bruised, raw skin, and stop. He doesn't say anything as he walks inside, not taking his eyes off you as he does. He looks, as usual, handsome enough to make your heart stutter in your chest unevenly, wearing black and blue, making his eyes more vivid, his hair darker. You swallow hard, looking down at your feet, feeling a blush creep up on your cheeks. 

A second later you feel his fingers tilt your chin up, his eyes seeking yours. "I would kiss you," he says in greeting, "but I'd ruin your makeup."

You laugh. "Wise thinking," you say. 

His mouth quirks up at the corner. "You should appreciate my restraint," he says, his voice slightly rough now. "You look exceptionally tantalizing."

You feel yourself blush again, and a sort of slow heat flare up all over your body. "The same goes for you," you say, and you sound breathless. 

The clock on your mantel chimes five suddenly, making both of you jump. "Damn," he mutters, stepping away from you. The sudden absence of heat is startling. "We're late."

"And that hall is so far away," you say as you both leave the room. You kick it shut behind you with a heel as you set off along the corridor at a brisk pace. "When are we supposed to be there?"

He shrugs. "Around five thirty or so."

"That's so early," you groan. "I swear, when we get married, the ceremony should start at lunchtime and we can all sleep in and wear our pajamas to the party."

He laughs. "I think I would find that agreeable," he says. "But I think you'd be able to hear Dís screaming from the Shire."

You huff out a laugh. "Well, she's welcome to wear her pajamas, too." You lift your skirt, walking faster. "I said I'd see Yraena before the ceremony," you say. "Where'll she be?"

"At the hall," he says. "There'll be a small separate room for her and everything, you can go see her."

"Good." You look up at him sideways. "How's Frerin?"

"Nervous, though he's vehemently denying it," he says. "I could tell."

You snort. "That sounds like Frerin."

"I'm just glad they're not acting like they barely know each other anymore," he says. "I was beginning to think they'd never warm up to each other."

"Me too," you say, thinking of what Yraena had told you last night. "But all's well that ends well, I suppose."

"And thank Mahal for that." You both draw up at the doors to the hall, which are thrown wide open. You take in a breath. "Well, it's time," you say. 

He nods. "Let's go."

+++

"Y/N!" Yraena practically flies at you, throwing her arms around you and holding you tight. "I'm so glad you came."

"What's up?" You gaze into her face, concerned. She looks resplendent in a dark blue dress spattered with silver, with a navy ribbon holding her hair back. It's plain but very pretty, and she looks fresh-faced and flushed, and breathless. 

"Nothing, I'm just so nervous," she gasps. "I've got a thousand butterflies in my stomach."

"Calm down now," says a voice, and you see Dís leaning against the wall behind Yraena, in a gown of deep green satin and blue lace. Her hair is up in an elaborate braid, set with sapphires that set off her eyes. "Don't get too overwhelmed."

"I'm trying," says Yraena. "Oh, Mahal, I'm so scared. What if I trip on the way to the altar? What if I forget my vows? What if I forget to say something? What if—"

"Shh," says Dís, as if trying to calm an overexcited horse. "You'll be fine."

She lets out a breathless rush of incoherence, sitting down. She worries at the ends of the ribbon in her hair, biting her lip. You sit next to her, patting her hand. "Wedding jitters are perfectly normal," you say. "My mom said that on the day of her wedding she nearly dropped the ring, she was so nervous."

"Did she drop it?"

"Almost. But afterwards she felt silly for having worried so much, because she said she loved my dad and that she knew there was nothing to worry about. What can happen? Today will be the best day of your life." 

You can't count how many times your mom had said that to you. _"When you finally marry someone you love,"_ she'd said, _"Your life will feel complete. It'll be the best, most important day of your life, the day you tie yourself to someone you want to be with, forever. It's a leap of faith."_

You hadn't wanted to get married, back at home. You'd just wanted to live alone, knowing that nobody on earth could possibly make you happy. But now... now Thorin makes you happy. And you want to marry him. You can only imagine the happiness on your mom's face if you told her that. She'd be ecstatic if you so much as had a crush on the boy next door, and had always wanted you to mingle, get out there and get a boyfriend, try it out. But you'd never been interested. 

"You will be fine," you tell Yraena. "Just think of how much you love Frerin, and how much you want this."

She takes a breath and nods, smiling at you. "Thanks, Y/N." She glances at the time. "You should leave now," she says. "It's nearly time."

You give her hand one last squeeze. "You can do this," you say. "You're going to own this show. Good luck." You give her a quick kiss on the cheek and hurry out, Dís right behind you. 

"The poor thing," says Dís in a low voice as you move towards the front. "Even I wasn't that nervous on the day of my wedding."

"She'll be okay."

"I know." She smiles at you. "You look wonderful," she adds. 

"Thanks." You grin at her. "So do you."

She gives an exaggerated little twirl, so that the skirt of her gown flares out like the petals of a green flower. "I picked it out myself," she says as you both giggle uncontrollably. 

"What are you two up to?" asks a voice, and you turn to see Frerin, looking distinguished and formal and ruggedly handsome as usual in his House colors. He looks faintly sick. 

"Well, if it isn't the man of the day," says Dís, putting her arm around his shoulders. "Nothing, I was just showing Y/N my dress. But that's not important—how are you feeling? Not too nervous, I hope?"

"Nervous? Me? Pah," he says, though he sounds very nervous indeed. "Not me, I'm just... just..." He quails under Dís' critical glance and caves. "Yeah, I'm nervous," he sighs. He scrubs his hands across his face. "I feel like I'm going to ruin everything."

"Oh, shush." She pats his cheek. "You'll be fine, you dolt. Just keep a level head, and you'll have this in the bag." 

"Mmhmf," he says. 

"What?" 

"I said, where's Thorin?" He lifts his face from his hands. 

"Right here," says Thorin's voice, and he materializes next to you, raising his eyebrows. "What is it? Do you need something?" 

"No, I don't need anything, but—" He shakes his head. "Mahal, am I really getting married today?"

"Yes, you are." Dís beams like a proud mother hen. "I can't believe it, but you are." She pinches his cheeks and he bats her away, muttering. "And there you were five years ago, saying you'd rather run away," she says, and he waves a hand. "That was then," he says. "You know, before."

"Before what?" you ask, and he shrugs. "Before Yraena, I guess."

You and Dís share a grin. "You should get inside," she says. "Before the guests start arriving and it'll all be a colossal mess. Go on, shoo." She herds him towards another small room, shutting the door behind him. She turns to you, hands crossed. "And now," she announces, "we begin."

+++

You're sitting in the front row, between Thorin and Dís, your legs crossed (left over right) and your hands folded in your lap. Your feet are jingling nervously, and you stop them with an effort.

Everyone is seated, and it had taken the better part of the last four or so hours to receive all the guests and seat them and greet them and put on a polite facade to do that. Frerin is standing by the altar, looking calm and normal, but his eyes seem nervous. It seems to be the same setup as a wedding back home—priest, vows, walking down the aisle. Though there doesn't seem to be a best man or bridesmaids, which is a little strange to you, but you let it slide. 

A breath of wind passes down the aisle and everyone turns their heads in unison to see Yraena and Aethan, arm in arm at the doorway, Yraena looking nervous but happy and Aethan looking proud and jovial as usual. 

They start to walk down the aisle, looking straight ahead and not left or right. Everyone watches them, and as they hear the altar Aethan gently disengages himself from his daughter, and after he pats her hand imperceptibly, he glides off towards the side. Yraena advances, nervousness lighting her face, flushing her cheeks and brightening her eyes. She draws up to Frerin, who grins at her. Instantly, she seems to relax, smiling back. Both of them turn towards the priest. 

There's a dizzying amount of speaking, throughout which Yraena and Frerin have eyes only for each other. Finally, the priest draws out a blood red ribbon, holding it out. 

"Do you, Frerin Durin, son of Thrain, take Yraena Firebeard, daughter of Marena...?"

Dís' eyes are welling, and she presses a handkerchief to her mouth, blinking rapidly. You squeeze her hand and she smiles at you, a tear slipping down her face. 

You see them exchange rings, Frerin's a plain golden band and Yraena's a slender one with a diamond set into it. Their movements are soft, and you see Yraena's fingers shaking ever so slightly, and Frerin's hands linger on hers longer than they should. 

The priest ties their wrists together, loosely enough to offer them some wriggle room, and then says, "Then I now pronounce you husband and wife."

They both lean forward, their lips meeting, as the whole room bursts into applause. You're still gripping Dís' hand when they draw away, both smiling at each other in this really soppy, adorable way that makes you all warm inside. 

You turn your head to see Thorin looking not at the altar at the newly married couple, but at you, a small, sad little smile on his face. You take his hand and he squeezes your fingers as you lean into him, whispering, "And so one bond has been tied."

"There's still one more," he murmurs back, and you smile, looking back towards the altar, where people are swarming, to congratulate the happy couple. You stand as well, your arm looped through Thorin's. Dís is still surreptitiously wiping her eyes, clearing her throat as she moves off towards the altar. 

You see Saelle and Estela, also arm in arm, both murmuring to each other and smiling. Even Marena has softened, smiling a little as she watches her daughter and her husband. Thrain looks haughty but proud, and the whole hall seems to glow a little brighter. 

As you move off to congratulate Yraena and Frerin you think maybe, just maybe, things will work out fine and end happily after all.


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Speak low if you speak love."_
> 
> _–William Shakespeare_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahh, it's so early! Yay! Hope you like this chapter, and I'm really nervous about it, so do drop a review, even a single word would do, as long as you all tell me what you think! Cheers!  
> And a word of warning—sexytimes ahead. Proceed with caution. ;)

The moment you reach the altar you abandon all pretense, throwing your arms around both Yraena and Frerin. 

"Congratulations, you two," you whisper. "I know you'll be happy together."

They both smile at you, impossibly happy. "Thank you, Y/N," says Yraena, holding your hands with hers. Frerin grins at you, and he looks so ridiculously happy that you can't help but laugh, squeezing his shoulder. "I'm so happy for you," you say. 

"You're a married man, Frerin," says Thorin, grinning, and the two brothers hug, murmuring to each other in low tones as they do. "I never thought I'd see the day," he says. 

"Neither did I," murmurs Frerin. "But here I am." He puts an arm around his wife, pulling her against him. She smiles up at him, her hair vivid against the fabric of his shirt. After you're dome congratulating the two, you and Thorin head towards the back, your arm looped through his. 

"Well, it's done," you say, and he grins at you. "So it is."

"One down, one to go," you tease, and he rolls his eyes but laughs, his fingers brushing the small of your back. You shiver at the contact, wondering if you'll ever refuse to be affected by his touch. You try to act like it doesn't fluster you, but he notices; his smile turns crooked, more languorous. His eyes darken visibly, and you find yourself looking away quickly, your heart hammering. You feel breathless. 

"I thought I'd find you two here," says a voice, and you see Saelle, Estela next to her. She looks very pretty in a dress of ice blue and white, and with her silver hair she looks like a snow queen. Estela looks striking as usual in deep, blood red, her eyes ringed in black. "Hiding in the back," she goes on.

"You would too, if people kept looking at you as if to say, _you're next_ ," you say, tilting your head and looking at them. "It's maddening."

"I'm sure." Saelle looks remarkably calm and unblushing, given the fact that she'd built up a reputation of someone entirely different from who she is, and especially for Thorin. She just seems like she doesn't care what he thinks as long as she knows who she is. Not for the first time you feel a rush of admiration for her. 

"They look happy," says Estela, looking towards the dais. You follow her gaze, seeing the freshly wedded couple smiling widely, their faces bright. You smile too. "They do."

"That's good; not many people find happiness these days," she says. "They're lucky that they did."

Her eyes are stormy but her tone is light. When she turns back to you, she's smiling. You must have imagined the anger in her gaze. "How rude of me," she says, holding out a slender hand. "Estela," she says. You shake her hand. Her skin is soft and smooth. "Y/N."

"Charmed," she says, turning to Thorin. She inclines her head to him, and wanders off, humming to herself softly. Saelle watches her go, her expression tender. "She can be a little cynical sometimes," she says, "but, then again, who isn't?" 

With a last nod at you, she hurries off after Estela, vanishing into the crowd. You look up sideways at your betrothed, raising your eyebrows. "It's odd, isn't it, how much everything has changed," you say. 

"Odd is the mildest way of putting it," he says. "It feels like a completely different world from the one I knew before you."

You bat your lashes at him. "Is this your way of telling me that you can't imagine your life without me?"

His lips quirk up. "I've got a very different method of passing on that message," he says, his voice low. His lips just brush your ear, and a wave of feeling crests over you, making you shiver—again. _Dammit_. "I trust you know what I mean."

"No, I don't, actually." You sound out of breath, like you've been running for miles. "Care to enlighten me?"

His eyes spark, but before he can reply you hear a cheer rise up from the crowd as everyone starts to clear the chairs in the room, pushing them to the walls as they clear a space in the middle of the room in a rough circle. Frerin leads Yraena by the hand in the center of the cleared space, and they're both laughing as they clasp hands. Music rises from the little string quartet set up on the side, and they start to dance, as the crowd claps and cheers. 

You clap along, smiling at the couple as they laugh and twirl with each other, and there's a sort of connection between them now, as if the bond is actually tangible, visible. Everywhere you look are smiles and laughter and cheer, and the whole room seems brighter and warmer than it did before. 

A wave of memory and sadness crests over you, so suddenly you can't breathe. As much happiness as this new life has brought you, you can't help but miss home, the towers of glass that rose from the ground and brushed the clouds, the busy metropolitan city with the people bustling around and sleek trains sliding along tracks built against the sky. 

You blink, and just as quickly as he memories came they're gone, fading from behind your eyes and from your mind, slowly dissolving. You can no longer truly remember exactly where your house was, in the woods, and if your room had been the one on the right or the left. Nor can you remember the faces of your friends and distant family. Now all you can see is your room here, and Yraena, Frerin, Dís, Lyvya and Thorin. Slowly, the memories of your past life fade into the background, leaving behind but a whisper. 

You rise up and out of the ocean of the past, blinking. You can't remember what you'd been thinking about. You gasp in air, swallowing. What had just happened?

"Is something wrong?" asks Thorin in a low voice, his hand firm on your back. You shake off the uneasiness and mutely shake your head, looking back at Yraena and Frerin's faces alight with happiness as they dance. 

"No," you say. "Nothing's wrong."

+++

"Well, it's finally done," you say.

You and Thorin are sitting shoulder to shoulder on your bed, leaning against the headboard. Your legs are stretched out in front of you, and you can feel it every time he breathes, a slight movement against your shoulder. 

"It's a little disconcerting, isn't it?" He leans his head back against the wood. "It's all everyone's been raving about for years, and now it's over." 

"Not really over," you remind him. "There's still the Summer Ball."

He makes a face. "That doesn't count."

"It does," you protest. "It's a... a sort of reception, or what have you."

He makes a noncommittal sound of assent. "I suppose."

"It'll be even more grand than this," you say. "Than the wedding ceremony, that is. Wont it?"

"About five times as grand, if that makes you feel any better," he says. "Half the kingdom is invited—wait, strike that. The whole kingdom is invited. Mahal knows how we'll manage them all in one room."

"Dís will work her magic."

"That she will." He takes your hand, his thumb running lightly over your knuckles. He seems to love playing with your fingers, you've noticed. His touch seems to leave electricity in its wake; everywhere his skin makes contact with yours you feel it like a tiny shock—your fingers, your palm, your knuckles. You're sure he can feel the pulse fluttering in your wrist. 

"Give it a few months and we'll be married, too," you say softly. "It seems unreal."

His eyes skip to yours. In another time, he'd have grinned at you. _"Is the prospect of marrying me that terrible?"_ he'd ask, and you'd both laugh. Normal Thorin and normal you would have made a joke. But this isn't normal Thorin—there's a sort of slow, heady glitter in his eyes, making them darker, more deep. Against your will your own eyes drop, your gaze landing on his lips, which part slightly under your eyes. _Hmm,_ you think. 

"It does," he says, and to your faint gratification, his voice is uneven. Your eyes quickly dart back to his, and you swallow hard when you see that he's leaned forward. Slowly, deliberately, his fingers lace with yours, your skin pressing together. You shiver, your lashes fluttering. 

"When I came into your room earlier today I hardly recognized you," he says, his voice so quiet you can hardly hear it. Your face flushes as his eyes rove over you, the skin of your shoulder where the fabric of your dress has slipped aside, the wings of your collarbone that the plunging neckline of the dress exposes. His eyes flick back to your face, and your heart stutters when you see the expression on his face. He looks—hungry. Heat unspools low in your body, spreading upwards, prickling in your chest. 

"The number of times I wanted to leave that room, the number of times I wished we were alone..." The fingers of his free hand reach up, cupping your cheek, drawing you forward. Your voice sounds breathy and rushed when next you speak. 

"Well," you say, "we're alone now."

You feel his breaths on your lips, warm and enticing. "So we are." He pulls you closer still, his eyes blazing. "My apologies," he says, "to the perfection of your makeup."

You don't even have time to laugh before his lips descend onto yours, and you gasp his name against his mouth, your fingers winding into his hair, feeling the rough silk of it against your skin. He lays you under him, and your hands find his shoulders as you pull him down over you, his teeth pulling on your lower lip. You give a little cry of surprise into his mouth as you yank him closer, his fingers tangling into the strings of your dress, loosening them. You stiffen with surprise, your heart thundering in your chest as he draws away, just far enough to see your eyes. That slow, dark hunger is still simmering in his eyes, turning them black. 

"Do you want me to stop?" he breathes, lips hovering just over yours, his fingers still on the laces of the dress. Your consciences war, gut instinct telling you to say _yes, go on, go further._ The other side of you, rationality, tells you to wait, pause and think, of what could happen. 

You must hesitate for too long, because his mouth curves up into a teasing half-smile, and he leans down, stealing your lips in another long, burning kiss that makes your toes curl. He pulls away a minute later, and you blink up at him, your heart hammering as you make up your mind—

The clock in the room chimes loudly, as if to reprimand you. You both jump, and he looks around at it, blinking as if waking from a dream. The clock chimes five times. You lay your head against the pillow with a sigh, your heartbeat slowing. 

"I think we should go get ready now," you say, breathless. 

"We should," he sighs with something akin to regret. You grin as he pulls you up, steadying you almost unconsciously, as if he's used to it now. You pat your hair self-consciously, feeling how loose it's become. You frown, trying to tuck it into place. 

"You should leave before Lyvya walks in and freaks out," you say, not entirely succeeding in neatening your hair. "She nearly fainted when I told her you stayed the night."

He laughs a bit. "How will she react when she sees you now?" His fingers brush over the marks on your lips and you flush. "She won't say anything... hopefully. Now get going before she comes in and dies of embarrassment."

He grins at you, all his earlier languorous consuming demeanor evaporated. "Yes, ma'am," he says, and the door closes behind him.

+++

You'd been wrong.

Lyvya does notice your disheveled appearance, and she connects the dots, too. And she does say something, and that something happens to be, "Miss, you should be more careful! Your hair is a mess, and your lips are all bruised. You should be glad there are no marks on your neck, the dress wouldn't hide any of it."

Of course at that you'd blushed, and stuttered and spluttered, and she'd shaken her head imperiously, pointing at the bathroom. "Go wash up now," she says, sounding like a sharp, no-nonsense mother. "And be quick, you'll be late otherwise!"

Which is how, fifteen minutes later, you find yourself in front of the mirror, watching Lyvya pinch and pull you into your evening gown, which is, if possible, even fancier than the last one. It's somewhere between blue and violet, a sort of deep indigo, frosted with black lace at the neck and hem and cuffs. 

This time her hand with the cosmetics is anything but light. Dramatic angles and shadows, sweeping, cutting cheekbones, dark intriguing eyes that throw off glitter when you blink, and full bloodred lips. You can hardly recognize yourself as you look at yourself in the mirror. With a faint note of surprise and not without some amusement, you notice that the color of the dress is the precise shade of Thorin's eyes—that deep, fathomless blue that's pale in the light and vivid in the shadows. 

Lyvya puts your hair up into a complicated braided crown, weaves and twists and plaits in numerous places, until it's perfect, tucked neatly into place by her deft fingers. The top half of your bodice is translucent black lace, showing off your skin for the world to see, and, as usual, your corset is laced so tightly that it compresses your upper half, making your waist smaller and your décolletage fuller, your skin swelling gently above the neckline of the dress. 

"There," says Lyvya once she's done. "Finished."

"I think this is the best yet," you say, grinning at her. She blushes, smiling back. "I think so, too," she says, rubbing the fabric of your elbow-length sleeves between her fingers. "It's such a lovely color, too... You look simply ravishing, miss." She pats your cheek lightly, careful not to smear your makeup. 

"It's nearly six o'clock, miss, you should get going now," she says, propelling you gently towards the door. "Head to the biggest ballroom, you'll meet everyone there. Remember, chin up, smile, and have fun!" She gives you a quick peck on the cheek and vanishes into the servants' corridor, the last vestiges of her white and black dress disappearing into the gloom. 

You walk to the hall alone, finding solace in the solitude as you do. The corridors are quiet, and your footfalls echo in the stone, the sound wobbling around the halls. You reach the hall and push the doors open, taking a deep breath. 

Showtime.

+++

"Princess Y/N," says a voice. "You look lovely."

You turn your head and see Marena, seating herself elegantly next to you, wearing her House colors just like her daughter. She smiles at you, and you smile back tremulously. "Good evening, Lady Marena," you say. 

"I was... I was hoping to speak with you," she says. "About my daughter."

"Oh." You hide your frostiness and force another smile. "Yes?"

"She looks happy," she says abruptly. "Today—I have never seen such brightness on my daughter's face. She did not wish to marry, back at home when she was young. Seeing her now... It reminded me of how much she hadn't wanted it before."

You stay silent. 

"I was never proud of her," she exhales. "Always I saw only her flaws, what made her vulnerable, what weakened her. I refused to see anything else."

She looks straight ahead, unwavering. "I always knew my daughter was condemned to the fate of a royal woman, a noblewoman. She would marry, and leave, and I would never see her again. So instead of crying after she left, I made sure she would want to go. I forced myself to point out her flaws, time and time again, even as I found those very flaws beautiful, what made her Yraena. And now she is so happy, and I find myself glad for her happiness." She bows her head. 

And you are staring at her in wonder, your eyes wide. "There are other ways," you say, "of healing those wounds."

"And yet instead I have destroyed everything," she says. "But as long as she is happy I am content. I am her mother, after all. I will take pride from her pride." She nods. "I will heal, it matters not. But my daughter must endure. She will, I know it."

"Lady Marena... You didn't have to tell me."

She smiles, sadly. "I think I did," she says. "And please do me a favor. Never tell my daughter what I just told you. Let her be safe in the knowledge that I have forsaken her. If what I just told you means anything, tell no one."

"I won't," you say. "But... if you don't mind me asking—why me?"

"Because you see the good in people," she says. "You see it and you bring it out. You touch everyone you meet, in their hearts. And that is a rare power. Do not let go of it."

Before you can reply she stands, nodding to you. "Good night, lady Y/N," she says. "And thank you."

She glides off, leaving you to stare after her, your heart full of pity and empathy. The many facets of people never cease to amaze you. Briefly you wonder if you should have majored in psychology. It certainly would have helped you a lot in these kinds of situations. 

"My lady," says a voice, and you look up in surprise to see Thorin, wearing silver and blue that makes him radiate light and a crooked smile that makes your thoughts become all jumbled and misplaced suddenly. He holds out a hand, raising an eyebrow. "May I have this dance?"

You smile at him and take his hand. "I thought you'd never ask," you say.

+++

You dance well into the night, never seeming to tire of the pulsing music, the way it swirls around you like mist, the seamless way you move with him. You're so used to his body and the way it moves that your movements are smooth and coordinated, controlled and balanced and perfect. You can predict every move he'll make before he makes it.

It's after dark and nearly midnight when you finally sit, both breathless and pink-cheeked. Dís grins at you from across the table, giving you a subtle wink. You grin back at her, fanning your face with a hand.

Yraena is resplendent in a dress woven from dramatic fabrics in silver, black and red, her House colors. Frerin is next to her, both of them talking in low tones, occasionally smiling at each other, Frerin's hand resting atop Yraena's.

You start as you feel a warm touch glide over your back, caressing your skin through your dress. You stiffen, then relax when you recognize the touch. Thorin gets more adventurous, fingers sliding down further than he's ever gone. You try not to gasp aloud as those marauding hands go lower and lower—

You stand, glaring at him but trying to hide how flustered you are. Flustered, and more than a little aroused. You clear your throat as he raises an innocent eyebrow. "I think I've had one too many drinks," you say. "I'm going to bed."

Frerin smiles at you. "Sure, Y/N," he says. "See you in the morning." Beside him, Yraena waves, laughing at something her husband just whispered in her ear, their hands entwined. You smile at them, happy for their happiness. 

You're a step away from the table when another chair scrapes back. "I think I'll go to bed as well," says Thorin smoothly. "See you two in the morning."

There's a chorus of goodbyes, and you try to get out of the hall as fast as you can, slipping outside and closing the door, hurrying along the corridor. You bunch your skirt in your hands and walk as briskly as you can. Obviously, you're thwarted.

"You can't get rid of me that easily," laughs Thorin, and then he's pulling you towards him, his mouth seeking yours in a sloppy, messy kiss. You return it just as sloppily, your tongues sliding together as you pull away slowly, feeling his breaths on your lips.

"I wanted to do that all evening," he sighs, leaning his forehead against yours.

"If I can't get rid of _you_ ," you murmur, your lips brushing his. "Can I get rid of these?" You pull at his clothes, your teeth closing around his lip. You run your tongue along the inside of his lip, relishing in the small moan that spills into your mouth. 

"I think I'd like that," he whispers, and then, like you're not in a corridor where anyone can see you, he shoves you up against the wall, kissing you like he's dying and you're the only thing keeping him alive. His hands go where they'd gone in the dining hall, and you moan into his mouth, your fingers fisting into the soft hair at the back of his neck to pull him closer. 

"Your room," you gasp. "Your room—"

He trails a burning path of kisses along your jaw, burying his face into the curve between your neck and shoulder, his harsh breaths warming your skin as his arms tighten around you.

"Y/N," he says, his lips moving on your neck. "Are you sure?" 

You close your eyes. There's no hesitation, not tonight. It's too much, this fire between you. If you try to escape it now it'll swell till it consumes you anyway. You'll willingly jump into the flames with him, make this real. 

You pull away till you can see his eyes, wide and dark with desire. You've shied away from this thrice now, on the brink of no return. But now... Now you will throw yourself off the ledge. You look at him, and you nod.

"Yes."

+++

Halfway there, he yanks you into one of the shadowy alcoves lining the hallways, closing the curtain with a savage tug. You can scarcely see in the semidarkness, but you feel it when he pulls you closer, an arm snaking around your waist as his lips find your neck. You murmur as his hot breath fans your skin, and his teeth follow, a sharp nip that drags a needy moan from your mouth. Your hands reach for him, sliding across his shoulders, your nails digging in.

He nuzzles into your neck, tongue teasing your skin until you're panting and gasping, the ache between your legs almost unbearable. Your fingers twine into his hair, twisting the braids around your fingers and tugging. He sighs, and his breath on your neck makes goosebumps break out all over your body. 

"Y/N," he whispers, lips moving on your throat. As you squirm slightly, he bites down again, making you sigh. His hands find the laces of your dress, and a dart of surprise shoots through you. You put your hands on top of his, stopping him. 

"Thorin," you gasp. "Not here, not here—"

He groans, half frustration and half desire. He pulls away, eyes wide and dark in his pale face. He grabs your hand and kicks the curtain open, pulling you back outside again. You're suddenly very glad there are no guards stationed in the corridors as you push Thorin towards his room, at a near run. You're blinded by desire. You need this. You need _him_ , right now. 

The door slams behind you and he immediately pushes you up against it, mouth moving against yours frantically. "Thorin, oh, God, Thorin—" Your fingers fingers bunch in the material of his tunic, grabbing a fistful and yanking him closer, your lips parting beneath his, yielding to the pressure. His hands grip your hips, so hard you're sure they'll bruise. "I love you so much."

His tongue tangles with yours, and a jumble of sensations pour into you: the sweet, tart taste of wine, the smell of leather and that deep rich sent that you've come to associate with Thorin, the feeling of his lips on yours, just enough pressure to make your back arch. You put your palms flat on his chest and shove, pushing him away as hard as you can. He stumbles backwards, breathing hard, reeling back into the middle of the room. His face is flushed with the exertion of the kiss. You prowl slowly towards him, closing the distance between you in a languorous pace, flinging your hair back away from your face. The pupils of his eyes are expanding rapidly as you approach, and when you reach him you practically leap onto him, your lips slanting across his with barely tamed ferocity. 

Each kiss is hungrier than the last. It's like you're trying to tear each other apart, rip your chests open and share your hearts, even if it kills you both. His teeth sink into your lip, breaking the skin. Hot coppery blood fills your mouth, and he sucks on your lips, licking it off. You groan, your nails digging into the back of his neck. Your hands slide down and scrabble at the strings of his tunic, fingers hooking into them and pulling hard.

Fabric tears as you yank, ripping the garment down the middle. Your hungry hands push the furs off his shoulders, your breath catching when you hear them hit the floor. You bat the shredded remains of his tunic off his body, baring his skin to the cool air, and to your starved gaze. 

You step back, pulling away from the kiss. He's looking at you from under a glittering, heavy-hooded gaze as your eyes travel greedily over him, breathing hard. You know you'll never forget this sight, the sight of him—it's sure to be burned into your brain forever. 

His skin is pale and soft, and raised all over with thick scars from long-since battles and wars, smooth where it isn't scarred. Not a trace of ink, not like you'd expected. His skin is unmarked, unlike Frerin's. Impossibly wide shoulders, a broad, muscled chest with a smattering of dark hair along it, the hard ridges of his abdomen, somehow tapering to narrow hips. You don't know which God shaped his body, but whichever one it was, He or She definitely paid attention. 

Your tentative hands reach out, trailing along the languidly shifting muscles of his abdomen. His skin is warm, and hard muscle jumps beneath your touch. Your hands move with greater purpose, smoothing over his sides, along the swell of his pectorals, brushing across his throat. His breaths jump erratically, his eyes lowering to follow every movement of your hands on his body. You lick your lips, wanton desire overwhelming you suddenly. You want to see all of him. 

You close the distance between you in a surge, your lips latching onto his. He growls, arms crushing you against him as your fingers hook into the waistband of his trousers. He gasps against your lips when you push down, allowing the garment to pool at his feet. He blinks wide, lustful eyes at you, black with desire, as you pull away, stepping back to allow your eyes to feast on the sight of his body. 

Your mouth goes dry as you behold the bare expanse of him, the veritable acres of tanned skin, the hollows of his hips, the edges and planes of his legs, the dark hair that looks like a liquid void spilling down his shoulders and back, tickling his chest. Your eyes drift lower, and your heart stutters unevenly, arousal tearing through you. Oh god, he's gorgeous. 

Your hands reach for him, wanting to touch him, to please him, but his fingers wrap around your wrists, holding you back firmly. You moan something incoherent, pushing futilely. His lips graze your ear, his breath hot. "Wait. Let me touch you."

You still as his hands trail up, brushing along your arms. His fingers move to the front of your dress, fingering it lightly. Your chest rises and falls deeply, your eyes locked onto his. You can hardly believe this is happening. 

His fingers move languidly, slowly, leisurely unhooking your bodice. With every hook that he pulls out, it falls open a little more, revealing the tight black corset you wear underneath. You flush as his eyes drink in the sight of your exposed skin, the downward sweep of your throat and the gentle swell of your breasts that the corset pushes up. You shiver, not at the feeling of his hands going where no man's ever had, but at the intimacy of the gesture, of the electric charge crackling between the two of you.

The last hook comes undone, and he steps back, his hands moving away. The dress whispers down your body, slithering at your feet, leaving you in only your stockings and corset. You've never been this undressed in front of a man in your whole life. 

He spins you around, fingers working expertly at the laces of your corset. Undoing them one by one, he presses slow, light kisses down your back every time he pulls open a lace, kneeling down as he tugs the last string open. His mouth moves on your waist as he throws the corset away, hands flying up to grip your hips. His fingers drag your stockings down your legs, slowly, tantalizingly. Once the last one is off and you're completely bare, he stands, spinning you back around to face him. 

His eyes are eclipsed with need, his lips parted as he drinks in all of you, his expression going from mildly hungry to ravenous as he looks at you, his eyes moving over the vulnerable arch of your throat, the swell of your breasts, the gentle bend of your waist, the flare of your hips. His eyes go even lower and you flush, your face feeling hot. 

"Mahal," he whispers, voice thick and hoarse. "You're beautiful."

You can't handle it anymore. You leap onto him, legs wrapping around his waist as you kiss him hard, hard enough to make him groan, his hands finding their way into your hair and pulling the clasps from it, allowing it to spill through his fingers in loose waves. He grips, tilting your head, devouring you as he moves closer, closer and closer still. You just can't seem to get close enough. 

He pushes you backwards, and both of you stumble towards the bed, tangled in each other. The back of your knees hit the edge and you fall back onto it, losing balance. You pull Thorin down over you, rolling him below you as you spread out on the mattress. You put your palms flat on his chest, your teeth sinking into the tender flesh below his jaw. His hands tighten bruisingly on your hips as he groans, your whole body tightening deliciously. 

You move up, losing balance again and slipping, half-falling onto him. He takes advantage of the momentary distraction and moves, lightning-quick; he rolls you under him, one hand digging into your hip while the other slides down your bare thigh, pulling your leg over his waist. His fingers cup the inside of your knee, hiking your leg up further as his lips dance along your collarbone. His arousal presses to the inside of your thigh and you gasp at the sensation. It feels like fire. 

Your other leg wraps around his waist automatically, bringing him closer. He pulls away a moment, gazing down at you, his hair falling forward, spilling across your throat. You swallow, looking at him. You can feel the burning desire in your own eyes. 

"Y/N," he whispers. "Is this—is this what you want?"

You answer without thinking. "Yes. Yes, Thorin, I want this, I want _you_. Make me yours tonight." You arch your back, your breasts flattening against his hard, muscled chest. Both of you groan softly at the contact. 

His head dips, and his mouth presses softly to yours, an oddly chaste kiss given the circumstances. You blink dazedly when he pulls away. "Thorin? Aren't you—?"

"Oh, I will," he says, his voice dropping into a seductive purr. "Do not doubt it. But first..." His eyes skip to yours. They're glittering like distilled sin. "I want to taste you."

Your heart skips a beat. He slides down your body, settling between your legs. You sit up on your elbows, your hair falling down your shoulders. "Thorin, what—"

_Oh._ His hands grip your thighs, then ever so slowly push your legs open, baring you fully for him, exposing you to his hungry gaze. You fall back against the bedding as you gasp, nails digging into the duvet on either side of you. You can feel that insatiable ache inside you, making you drip for him. Your face feels hot as you swallow hard. 

It begins as just a touch, a light caress. He presses featherlight kisses to your inner thighs, his beard feathering across your sensitive skin as he does. His hands grip your hips as his lips move up slowly, savoring you as his mouth finally finds the one place you needed him the most.

You gasp as his tongue darts out, gently tracing over your folds, tasting your arousal. Then his lips follow, mouthing all your highly sensitive spots and making stars explode in your eyes. Your breaths are shallow as he presses his mouth to you, parting his lips and tasting you deep and slow. A moan echoes around the room as his tongue moves suddenly, pressing to your clit and rubbing with slow, thorough circles. 

He moves up, and thrusts his tongue inside you, making a cry burst from your lips. You feel yourself clench around the slight intrusion, and a wave of sensation emanates from your core as you do. His lips move in patient caresses, making moans leave your mouth at every one. 

His teeth close lightly around your clit and you scream aloud at the feeling. A hand briefly withdraws from your hip to probe at your opening, a finger pushing inside you, exploring your body. You gasp, your hands clenching into his hair, fingers threading through his black mane and gripping tightly as he unravels you. His finger pushes into you again, followed by a second, then a third... 

You're all but sobbing as he thrusts into you with his hand, his tongue running over your folds as he does. You literally feel yourself stretch to accommodate his fingers, and every time he pushes in a long, low moan is ripped from your throat. Pain has never felt so good. 

His tongue replaces his fingers, thrusting into you and tasting you—no, _devouring_ you. Your hips move up on their own volition, pressing yourself harder into his mouth, grinding yourself against his teeth. You moan again, the drawn-out sound of your pleasure echoing in the room. You feel yourself tightening, a coil of pleasure gathering low in your body. Your body seizes up, going rigid as he tilts his head and licks a sure, straight path from your entrance till your clit, and then you're brought over the edge. 

You cry out, back arching helplessly as pleasure tears through you, wave after wave coursing through you and leaving you breathless. You feel yourself clench, your muscles fluttering rapidly as you come, his name a prayer on your lips. White light tears through your vision, blanching everything in sight as what looks like stars exploding burst through your eyes. After what feels like an age, you go limp, gasping shallowly. 

Thorin leans over you, supporting himself on his forearms on either side of your head so as not to crush you. His eyes are soft, and his lips are still glistening with your arousal. His eyes are nearly black, only a thin ring of blue surrounding his pupils. Your fingers are shaking as they cup his cheek, fingers curling into his hair as you tug him down for a kiss. He leans down, then acquiesces, slowly covering your lips with his, parting them in a slow, deep kiss. Your eyes drift closed.

You can—taste yourself, you realize with a small shock. Like a sweetish tang on his lips. You don't quite know what to make of it, but you don't protest. He parts your lips, then very deliberately strokes inside your mouth with his tongue, letting you taste yourself further. You shudder against him, hands gripping his shoulders. He bares his teeth and you get the invitation, tilting your head and running your tongue over his teeth, moaning softly when you taste your own arousal again. He makes a soft sound of approval before pulling away, breathing hard. 

You blink up at him, your heart contracting in your chest. Your hands slide over his broad, sleek shoulders, your fingers weaving around the back of his neck, pulling him down over you again. You feel it as you align, so many hard parts of him lining up with so many soft parts of you...  
Your hand slides down without hesitation, trailing over his washboard stomach, then down to his hips, then down further—

A harsh exhale of breath escapes you as your fingers wrap around him, feeling the velvet-wrapped steel of his hardness. His own breath hitches as you grip him firmly, not looking away from his eyes as you run your thumb over the wide, blunt head. He leans down, biting your lip hard as you stroke him, needing him to feel the same release as you had, needing him to lose control entirely, needing him to moan your name the way you had moaned his—

He's making soft, needy sounds as you find his pleasure, moving your hands firmly over him. He gasps, and his chest expands, pressing to yours. You don't stop, feeling drunk on the sight of him, the sweat gleaming at his throat, the shallow gasps emerging from his lips. Your hands move suddenly, wrapping around his length so firmly that he groans, his back arching slightly. He's beautiful like this, so tempting, inciting and gorgeous, so close to losing control.

He's close; you can see it in the way he's holding back his groans, the way his hands are tightening on your hips, the way his breath is coming in hard bursts. He throws his head back, biting out a frustrated oath in Khuzdul, his throat working. You lean forward, tongue flicking over his neck. He gasps your name, shoulders shaking. 

His fingers wrap around your wrists again, stopping you suddenly. His eyes are wild, pupils blown wide with desire. You can barely recognize him. He gasps. "Wait," he breathes. "Not—not here."

You swallow, reaching up to cradle his face in your palm. "Why?" 

He leans his forehead against yours and mutters something unintelligible under his breath. You frown, hands stilling in his hair. "What?"

He clears his throat. "Not... on the bed."

A rush of heat suffuses your cheeks and you bite your lip as you get his meaning. You flush, withdrawing your hand and twining your arms around his neck, placing a soft kiss on his lips. He responds, kissing you back, hands sliding up your sides and warm palms smoothing over your skin to cup your breasts.

You stiffen at the feeling, your whole body tensing. He moves back, looking down at you, eyes soft. "Is this all right?" he whispers. "We can stop if you want."

You shake your head before he even finishes asking. "No, it's all right, I want this, I've just—never done this before, I don't know what I'm supposed to do." You blush. This is hardly bedroom talk. You silently curse yourself for your lack of tact. 

His lips pull into a smile, and he kisses your neck quickly, drawing away. "Then allow me to lead the way, my lady." Without waiting for you to reply, he captures your mouth with his again, tongue tangling with yours. You arch into him and his hands move to your breasts again, just light, maddening touches that make you sigh into his mouth.

He pulls his lips away from yours, trailing them down your neck, to your jaw, then your collarbone, moving down slowly as your hands bunch in his hair. His warm lips run over the swell of your chest, and sensation prickles in their wake. He cups a breast in his big palm and lowers his head, teeth pulling gently at a budding nipple. You gasp, arching again. His breath ghosts over your skin as his tongue follows, soothing the bite. Then he lifts his head and blows gently on the damp skin, making a moan break from your throat. 

He repeats the process with your other breast, then alternates between biting and blowing on your skin until you're a needy mess, pulling at him with the mute appeal of your fingers and hands. When he finally concedes and leans up to kiss you, you yank him down with a desperation bordering on insanity. 

Your teeth bite into his lip, nails scratching over his chest, savagely pleased when he groans. You wind yourselves around each other like intricate thread, trying to get closer and closer with every kiss, every touch, every caress. It's not enough, it isn't enough, it never will be. 

You rip yourself away, gasping. "Thorin," you gasp. "Please, I—I need..."

Your head falls back as his teeth find your throat. "What do you want?" he bites out. "Tell me what you want." It's a near-growl.

Your chest heaves. "I want you, now."

His eyes lock with yours. He swallows, arms nearly crushing you. "Are you sure—?"

" _Yes._ I've never been more sure of anything in my whole life, Thorin." You meet his gaze levelly. "I want this. I want _you_."

He leans forward, his nose brushing yours. "You don't want to wait till after the wedding...?"

You grit your teeth. "Just take me, Thorin."

He lets out a long breath, then shifts, laying you down under him with a sort of impatient reverence, and you know he wants this just as much as you do. He moves until you feel his hot, hard length just nudge your opening and you gasp, hands digging into the bedsheets. You feel a sudden flash of nerves; this is really happening. 

He ducks his head, sucking on the skin of your neck, hard enough to leave a mark. He lifts his head and your eyes lock, and you feel an ache of love press against the back of your throat. You will not hesitate to give your body to the man you love. Just as you know he will not hesitate to give himself to you.

Unable to help it, you look down, swallowing hard, wondering how the hell he's going to fit inside you. He's... impressively large. And thick. Oh, my. You can't look away, even as your cheeks heat up. 

"It will hurt, a little, in the beginning," he whispers, and your eyes dart back up to his. "How... How will you—?" You look down again. 

He smiles a little, brushing his lips against yours. "You'll stretch."

You lick your lips, suddenly nervous. "Okay," you whisper. "Okay." You let out a shuddering breath, then set your jaw and nod at him. He holds your gaze, not looking away as he pushes forward, slowly, carefully sliding into you.

You gasp as a sharp, sweet pinch radiates through your body, resounding around you. You feel yourself stretch to accommodate him inside you, a dull ache spreading through your lower back. You swallow hard as he moves in until he can go no further, and both of you gasp as he bottoms out, stilling above you.

The ache inside your body fades, replaced almost instantly by burning pleasure and a feeling of desperate fullness. Your head falls back as your chest hitches up and down, pinpricks of pleasure traveling across your skin, in your blood. You swallow hard.

"Move," you gasp, arching your back. "Thorin, move—"

"Are you sure?" He's gasping, as wrecked by this as you are. You nod frantically, fingers digging into the bedsheets so hard it's a miracle they don't rip. "Yes! Please, Thorin, I can't stand it..."

He braces a hand on the bed and carefully draws out, then slides back in, then pulls out, then slides in... He slowly but surely sets a rhythm, thrusting into you with equal parts of patience and passion, firing all of your nerve endings. There are nerve endings you didn't even know you had firing too. You feel like a curl of fire. 

His control is slipping, with every thrust. Every time your hips meet you gasp, and your back arches high off the bed, pleasure coursing through you. Now you get it. Now you know what all the fuss is about. This is why people talk about passion like fire. Because you're burning. There's no other word for it. 

It's too slow, too caressing. You need to _feel_ it, feel him take you apart. Somehow through the haze of lust in your brain you find your voice, hoarse and distorted with your desire. "Thorin," you whisper. Your hips tilt up, a silent plea. "Faster," you moan.

He complies, thrusting harder, faster, allowing every drop of pleasure to be coaxed from your body. Your gasps turn to moans as your hands fly up, fingers wrapping around his biceps, nails digging in. You close your eyes, head tipping back, as your heart races and your breathing accelerates. 

Your eyes fly open as his hands tilt your hips up, and the change in angle causes him to hit a spot inside you that magnifies the sensation hundredfold. You cry out, pleasure engulfing you. You can barely even think. He leans over you, his harsh pants of breath ghosting over your shoulders and breasts, making your moans louder, your grip tighter. His hips stutter for a moment, then his thrusts turn deeper, harder. Your lungs fill in a gasp, and he rocks even deeper, making stars erupt in your eyes. Your nails scratch brutally across his back, gouging into his skin in your delirium of passion. You bite your tongue to keep from screaming. You're close, so close—everything tingles, your insides are clenching, your breath is bursting in your lungs.

His lips find your neck, breath hot against your sweat-slicked skin. "Come for me," he growls, and the purring, growling cadence of his voice coupled with the intensity of his tone, along with how he's still thrusting into you mercilessly, are enough to send you over the edge.

You scream aloud as pleasure scorches through you, scalding over you in waves that leave you reeling under a fiery maelstrom of sensation. You feel your insides clench alarmingly, tightening around him so brutally that he gasps, tensing, a hand fisting in the sheets beside you as galaxies and supernovas erupt in your vision. Your nails gouge through the fabric of the bedding, tearing through them and ripping them as you come, moaning Thorin's name.

He doesn't stop, still pushing into you even as you climax, chasing his own release. It catches up with him and he stops thrusting abruptly, his back bowing, your name half a groan and half a prayer on his lips, and liquid heat explodes inside you, filling you with searing heat. You moan softly at the feeling. He catches himself before he can collapse on top of you and crush you under his weight, instead rolling himself to lie next to you, carefully pulling out of you as he does. You both lie there a few moments, catching your breath.

With an effort, you roll around to face him, murmuring as he puts an arm around you and pulls you towards him, tucking your body against his. You look down, panic gripping you for a split second when you see the blood on the sheets. Then you relax, shimmying closer. The two of you fit together seamlessly, perfectly. It's like your bodies were made for each other. You sigh happily, resting your head on his chest. You hear the even, regular beats of his heart against your cheek. 

"Sorry about the..." You finger the ripped bedsheets, spotted slightly with your blood.

He drops a kiss onto your head. "Think nothing of it; that is the least of my worries as of now." He lifts your chin with a hand. He looks so concerned it breaks your heart. "Are you all right?" His worried blue gaze searches your face and you blush, nodding.

"I'm fine," you murmur. "Never been better." 

"I didn't hurt you?"

"Not in the least." You snuggle closer. "Quite the contrary." You bite your lip. "A little tired, but..." You smile at the unguarded concern in his eyes. "But happy," you conclude. "And..."

A small frown line appears between his brows. It's ridiculously cute. "And what?"

You can't help but lean forward and kiss him, his lips, his cheek, that adorable little frown line. You grin, drawing back. "And I love you. A lot."

His face softens into a smile, and he tilts his head and leans forward, planting a soft kiss onto your nose. "And I you." His lips ghost on your cheek, your temple, your jaw, then finally come to rest on yours. Your eyes flutter shut as you lean into him, giving yourself up to the kiss. Your arms slide across his shoulders and his press to the small of your back, molding your bodies together. 

You pull away after what feels like eons. His eyes are shimmering, and his lips are flushed. You bury your face into his chest as his arms encircle your waist loosely. You can't believe that someone as beautiful as he is could ever possibly be yours. 

"You're tired," he says reproachfully. "Come, I'll change the sheets and we'll put you to bed."

Your head snaps up as you glare at him. "I am not tired," you say, enunciating every word clearly. "And... There's no need to change the sheets, what's the point when they're just going to get messy again?" You blink coyly, fluttering your lashes at him. His lips twitch slowly into the most wicked smile you've ever laid eyes on. 

"Turnabout's fair play," you say, hooking a leg over his waist. You push his chest, rolling yourself on top of him gracefully and slinging your other leg over his hip, straddling him. You sit up, placing a palm flat on his chest, just over his heart. He's lying below you, hair spread out around his head, eyes glimmering, that wicked smile still on his lips. A sudden and voluminous hunger grips you. 

"I'd very much like a distraction," you purr.

He arches a brow. "And how do you know that this will make you feel better?"

You smile. "Trust me," you say. "I feel better already."

+++

_Rain lashes around you, the wind tearing at your hair, your clothes. Flashes of lightning illuminate the otherwise suppressive darkness, lighting the space around you._

_You look down and swallow a scream. The cliff is directly below you, the abyss stretching downwards from your feet. The spot of light is closer now, and you can see shapes moving inside it, writhing and undulating, light among light. It seems to call out to you, beckoning you closer, urging you to fall and become a part of that light._

_You feel a familiar, comforting touch, and then the wind has materialized into that figure your eyes are so accustomed to seeing, and the sight of him is enough to make you relax. It solidifies next to you, eyes burning blue._

_That's odd. You'd never noticed the color of his eyes before now. Blue, dark and inviting, like a night sky that's not quite dawn nor dusk._

_He whispers your name, and a deep shiver runs down your spine. "Here we are at last," he says. "Here at the beginning of the beginning."_

_"I'm here," you say, your voice unwavering. "I've come."_

_"You are ready, then?" You feel that intoxicating touch again, fingers running down your cheek and throat. "You are ready to fall?"_

_"I love you." The words are powerful, a thousand times more powerful than the storm or the light far down below. "I'm ready."_

_The wind dissolves, a curl, a tendril of it slithering around you as the world fractures around you, the cliff tilting. Taking a deep breath and closing your eyes, you leap off the cliff._

_Darkness rises around you, wrapping you in its soft embrace. The speck of light grows and grows as you fall, and then suddenly it surrounds you, spearing into your eyelids and flooding your vision with white._

_You've stopped falling._

_Now you're suspended in midair, the light all around you, filling you. You open your eyes, and instead of a white void, images burn into your mind, unnaturally vivid, like a tape on fast-forward._

_Your mother teaching you how to walk, how to talk; your father reading aloud to you from a book of fairy tales and nursery rhymes when you were little; riding a bike for the first time and falling on top of your dad, your tears turning into laughter when he swung you up in his arms; your first day of high school, your friends and the way you sat with them at lunch and saw them at your locker every morning; crying in your mother's arms when you left for university and had to stay away from home for so long; coming home years later and finding yourself in her embrace again, like you'd never left..._

_And then the day you'd heard the news of the car crash. The day your life shattered into a thousand pieces, all at once. One minute you had everything, the next minute you had nothing. Weeping alone in your parents' room with a picture of them clutched at your chest, feeling your heart breaking. Moving to their old house, living alone, far from the city. Being alone for what felt like forever._

_And coming to Erebor. Leaving everything behind. Falling in love. It's all a blur, and vividly clear in your head. You blink, and it's all gone._

_"Your heart is more powerful than you think."_

_The voice is achingly familiar. You open your eyes and see him standing there, clear as day. He takes your hands in his, warming your icy skin._

_"There is a reason," he goes on. "That it was you, and it was here, and it was me."_

_"Who brought me here?" Your own voice surprises you—steady and calm. "Why did I come here? Why me?"_

_"You already know the answer," he says. "I brought you here, and you brought yourself here as well."_

_"What do you mean?"_

_"Some are not as lucky as us," he says. "Some never find the one they are meant to have. Often worlds separate them, as they once did for us. But if one's heart yearns and desires and knows what it means to be complete, and be completed by another, then the worlds fuse, if only for a moment. They allow you to follow your heart."_

_"So what you're saying is... You were made for me? And that's what allowed me to fall here?"_

_"You said it yourself," he says. "That there exists someone who fits into your life, loves you for everything you are and nothing less, someone you may never find."_

_"Your One."_

_He nods slowly. "So strong was what tied you to me that for just a moment, your world met mine. And you were pulled towards your destiny. Towards me."_

_"I see now," you whisper. "I understand."_

_"You left a life behind, but it was not the life you were meant to have. Your place is here, with me. The gods separated us, but you found your way back to me."_

_"Always," you say. "Always."_

_His arms come around you, holding you close. Your heartbeats merge, becoming a single entity, a single identity, a single soul. You lay your head on his shoulder and close your eyes, as the light flashes around you, wrapping you in its glow as it envelops you, and your vision fades, knowledge coursing through your veins as you understand at last._


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"A successful marriage requires falling in love many times, always with the same person."_
> 
> _–Mignon McLaughlin_

You wake slowly, your mind groggy and your eyes still closed. You float in semiconsciousness, not quite awake and not quite asleep. You can't remember anything from what happened last night, just a meaningless blur. 

Slowly, you get your bearings, your eyes still screwed shut. You're on a bed—no surprise there—with silky sheets covering your skin and an unfamiliarly soft pillow beneath your head. There's light, lighting the insides of your eyelids to bright pink, and the source is above you, judging by the play of light on your face, warming your cheeks. 

And you're cocooned in warmth, wrapped in drowsy heat. As your mind separates sleep from wakefulness, you open your eyes, blinking at the wall. It's also unfamiliar, dark blue and white. As you shift, you're aware of a presence behind you, one that radiates heat. You realize why you're so warm now; you can feel arms wrapping you, and skin pressing against yours— _everywhere_.

_Thorin._

The memory of the previous night trickles into your mind, lighting your cheeks with a fiery blush as it does. You shift again, realizing you're caged in his arms, which wrap your waist loosely. Your back curves against his chest, and his chin rests on the curve of your shoulder, his breaths tickling your hair. Your legs are tangled together, and your hands are resting atop his. 

You're completely wrapped in his heat, his scent—it fills you, musky and spicy and rich. You inhale deeply, sighing, snuggling closer to him. He murmurs something and an exhale of his breath warms your shoulder, but he doesn't wake. You smile a little to yourself, moving closer again—and you wince as a deep, slow ache radiates from your lower half, spreading upwards. You blush again, your mind taking you back to why exactly you're this sore. 

It must be midmorning, you think blearily. You've slept through breakfast, definitely; you'd both kept each other up for most of the night, and you'd probably only fallen asleep a couple of hours ago. You heave a sigh, and you close your eyes. You're just slipping back into sleep when a knock on the door startles you awake again. You frown at it, wondering who it is. 

A second later the door opens, admitting a slender figure with a crown of golden curls. _Shit._

"Begging your pardon, I was looking for—" She catches sight of you and gasps, clapping a hand over her mouth, her sea green eyes wide and full of shock. "Miss Y/N!" she says, her cheeks flaming as she rises out of her little curtsy. 

"Lyvya!" you say, trying to sit up, to no avail. "I—"

"I was looking for you all morning!" she gasps, looking away pointedly, her cheeks still red. You imagine you must be quite the sight—both quite obviously naked, tangled in each other's arms, his face mashed into your hair, which is hopelessly messy and loose. _This is_ exactly _what it looks like,_ you think. 

"I couldn't find you, so I—I came to ask the prince, I didn't know you'd be here, and..." She blushes harder, looking away. "I'm so sorry to intrude, miss—"

"It's perfectly all right," you say firmly, trying to get up but failing. You flop back down onto Thorin, whose arms tighten around you as you do. "How were you to know I'd be here—"

Thorin mumbles something, and both you and Lyvya look at him. His hands slide around on your hips as he murmurs something slurred by sleep. "Y/N," he sighs, and a muscled leg hooks over your hip, drawing you further into him as his arms wrap around you more firmly. The bedsheets side up, yanked away by his movement, baring your entwined legs to the cool air. Lyvya looks away again, biting down on her lip as you blush, kicking the sheets back into place so that they cover you more. 

"Thorin," you call. "Wake up!" He mutters something, again distorted by sleep. He pulls you closer like you're a teddy bear, then buries his face into your shoulder and promptly continues to snore.

"I—I'll just leave then," she says quickly, and you call out. "Lyvya, wait!" She turns and you nod at her. "Thanks for... I mean, you were looking for me, right?"

She nods, determinedly not looking at Thorin behind you, his face still mashed in your shoulder. "Thank you," you say. "I'll be there as fast as I can. Tell everyone not to worry."

She nods, her face softening. She leaves quickly, shutting the door behind her with a snap. 

You turn around in his arms, frowning. One of his legs still curves around your waist, pressing you together so close you don't know whose skin is whose. Despite your faint annoyance at his not having woken up, it ebbs away as you look at him. He looks calm, relaxed, peaceful, a faint strip of dark blue visible under his nearly-closed eyes. His lips are parted, and bitten in numerous places—you blush—and there are scattered love bites all over his neck and chest—you blush again, harder this time—and his hair is disheveled.

You brush it away from his face with a light, tender hand. He makes a soft noise, but doesn't open his eyes as you gently move your fingers through his hair, smoothing it back. You wish you could let him sleep, but it's late, and Dís will probably be wondering where the hell you are. 

You shake him gently. "Thorin," you say in his ear. "Thorin, wake up. It's late, everyone's looking for us."

His eyelids flutter, but don't open. You shake him harder. "Thorin!"

He makes another soft noise, then slowly his eyes open, and he blinks at you, as if trying to piece it together, why you're here. He blinks again. "Y/N?"

You smile. "Rise and shine, Your Majesty."

"What..." His eyebrows furrow, and then his eyes widen as he appears to remember what happened last night. "When—when did we fall asleep?"

You shrug. "No idea. I think it was a few hours ago."

"Mmm." His fingers graze your sides and you feel a shiver race down your spine. "I don't even remember falling asleep."

"Neither do I." Your eyes lock, and suddenly you feel breathless. For what feels like years and years, you just look at each other, as if unable to believe that you belong to each other completely now. Maybe you should have waited till after the wedding, like you were supposed to, but... but you don't regret a thing. You never will. 

You both move at the same time, your hands finding his shoulders as he grabs your hips, pulling you towards him as your lips meet, desperate and carnal and reverent and loving all at the same time. You push to get closer, your fingers digging into the back of his neck as his claw at your waist, ghosting over the bruises he left there last night. Pain and pleasure mix in your body, and his name drags itself from your throat on a breathless moan. 

You don't know how, but suddenly you find yourself beneath him, your kisses turning more desperate with each one, more frantic, your fingers running along his chest, the corded muscle there, the hard yet smooth skin. His fingers lace with yours, pulling your arms above your head as his mouth outlines the shape of your collarbone, pressing to the delicate skin of your throat, kissing your neck. Your spine curves, arching into him, your wrists straining in the hold he has on them. 

He tastes so good, like heat and Thorin and spice. Your tongue chases the taste of him, probing his mouth and flicking over his lips. He sighs your name, a hand withdrawing briefly from yours as he reaches behind him for something. 

You sigh raggedly into his mouth as he moves into you, his own breath hitching as he stills above you, his lips parting slightly when he feels you clench around him, your body adjusting within no time at all, welcoming the stretch, the sweet pain that comes with it. You swallow hard as his fingers tighten on your wrists, his lashes fluttering. 

His first thrusts are slow, deep, languorous, pulling pleasure from somewhere deep inside you, making your breath come out in slow, broken puffs. You close your eyes, allowing the totally encompassing feeling to wash through you, to travel from your toes till the tips of your fingers then back again, lighting every nerve in your body on fire. 

You're swept away by the intimacy of it, not just the physical intimacy but the unspoken words that dangle in the air, the willingness to give yourselves to each other. The deep, male scent of him rises from his skin and you inhale it like a drug, letting it numb your senses, allowing it to seep into your pores and imprint itself in you. Your head spins; you feel overwhelmed by the sensual onslaught. 

You pull him down over you, seeking his lips in a messy, deep kiss, your fingers shaking as they clench in his hair. He retaliates with a growl, his lips slanting down across yours hard, hard enough for you to taste blood. Still he doesn't break the pace, dragging pleasure from you with each movement of him inside you. 

You tip over into your climax between one breath and another, sliding seamlessly into it as a rush of gentle sensation pours into you, cutting off your breath. You say his name breathlessly, in a voice you can hardly recognize as your own, your head falling back as whiteness blanches your vision, jagged lightning tearing through your sight. 

He's not far behind either; he tenses, then his hands tighten bruisingly on your wrists as his back arches and your name tears itself from his throat, and you feel heat seep into you as he gasps. He catches himself, then moves to lie next to you gracelessly, his harsh breaths stirring your hair. 

You turn to face him, your palm coming up to cup his cheek as you lean forward, kissing him softly. He responds just as softly, his arms looping around your waist as he moves closer to you, your skin pressing together.

You both draw away at the same time, both breathless. You glance shyly up at him, feeling yoirself blush. You have no reason to feel shy now—after all, he's seen all there is to see—but your cheeks still flush under his gaze. 

His cheek brushes yours, and you feel the roughness of his beard against your skin. "Good morning," he murmurs, and your face flushes again. 

"Good morning," you whisper, your breath hitching when you feel his fingers skim over your hips, then slightly lower. Your teeth sink into your lower lip as he presses a burning line of butterfly kisses along your jaw, then across your cheek. You murmur his name, your fingers tightening on his shoulders. 

He pulls away and you melt into his heat with a fluttering sigh, your bodies curving together. Your breathing steadies, his steady, even heartbeat calming you. "Lyvya came here looking for me," you say, one of your fingers outlining a raised scar on his chest. "About half an hour ago."

"Really?" He frowns down at you, his brows drawn together. "What happened?"

You blush. "Well... She sort of... saw us... in a really... compromising position..."

The tops of his cheeks flush a dark red and you shrug, biting your lip. "It's okay, she was actually pretty cool about it. She agreed to wait for me a few more hours."

"She didn't say anything, did she?"

"No." The word is an exhale of breath. "I mean, she was so scandalized I thought she'd spontaneously combust, but otherwise it was all right." 

"I'm sure." He's looking at you, and the weight and intensity of his gaze makes a slow heat coil low in your stomach. His fingers brush your lips. "Don't bite your lip," he murmurs, and your teeth free your bottom lip. You swallow. 

He leans forward, closer and closer until all you can see is the vivid dark blue of his eyes, filling your vision. Then even those wink out as he closes his eyes, his mouth moving against yours slowly, unhurriedly. Before you can even kiss him back his teeth graze your mouth, biting down onto your lower lip, sucking it into his mouth, his tongue sweeping across it before he lets you go, his fingers spreading across your lower back. 

"There," he says. "Now I've bitten your lip as well."

You flush. "Is that what you meant earlier about being distracted?"

"Mmhmm." He nudges your chin with his. "Whenever you bite it I feel like I'd like to bite it too."

You giggle, wrapping your arms around him. "Well," you say, "you have my express permission to bite my lip at any given time of the day."

"Then I will strive to make the most of it," he says, his fingers running through your hair, gently combing it back from your face. 

The clock chimes and you heave a sigh. "As much as I'd love to stay here all day," you say, "I need to go. Lyvya is waiting for me, and she's probably going to give me a lecture about how careless I am and how I should have been more careful."

He laughs a little. "A well-deserved lecture, then."

You glare at him. "It takes two to tango, Thorin, son of Thrain."

He grins at you, pulling you in for a long, hard, toe-curling kiss, rolling you on top of him. "Whatever my lady says," he says, and then there's no talk for a long time.

+++

You slip into your room, shutting the door behind you. You turn around and are immediately faced with a very disapproving-looking Lyvya, her arms crossed and her face set into a frown that seems faintly patronizing.

"Hi," you say, moving further into the room as smoothly as you can despite the twinge between your legs and the faint ache spreading up your back. 

She taps her foot. "Miss Y/N," she says, "you have quite a lot of explaining to do!"

"Oh, give me a break." You flop onto your bed. "It would have happened anyway. So what if it was last night?"

She shakes her head. "You are supposed to consummate your bond the night of the wedding," she says. "It's bad luck to—to lie with your betrothed before the two of you are married!"

"Where I come from, people do it all the time, regardless of marital status," you say, waving a hand. "It just... It just felt right, okay? I couldn't have waited till the wedding."

Her face softens. "I can't say I understand, miss, but it is frowned down upon, here. If anyone finds out—"

"How will they? It's not like we're going to flaunt it around. And how on earth would it come up in a conversation? 'Good morning, Dís, just so you know, I slept with Thorin last night and I hope you're not mad or anything!'?" You roll your eyes. "So what?"

She sighs. "It's considered bad luck here, is all, miss."

"Why?"

"Because the bride on the day of her wedding must be pure, in body and in mind," she says. "She isn't to be... taken... before her wedding. If she was to be, then her marriage will be short and bitter."

"Well, I didn't sleep with someone else, I slept with my future husband," you say, turning your nose up at her. "So it shouldn't matter."

She sighs. "I suppose," she says. "Anyhow, miss, I trust you were fully aware of what you were doing, so I can hardly say anything to oppose you," she says. "But, if I might ask, I do hope it lived up to your expectations?" She sends you a sideways smile.

You flush. "Well, now I certainly know what all the fuss is about."

She lets out a tinkling laugh. "I'm sure, miss," she says. "I'm sure he made the House of Durin proud," she adds distantly, seemingly not noticing how pink your cheeks have become. "I'll draw up a bath, shall I?" She bustles off. "I'm sure you're aching all over."

"Oh, do stop throwing those kinds of sentences around," you groan. "It's so embarrassing."

She fixes you with a piercing look. "You brought this upon yourself, miss," she says. "You have only yourself to blame."

"Hey, it's his fault, too!" You scowl at her, moving towards the bathroom, where you can hear running water. "Actually, it's all his fault. I didn't do anything."

"Anything but let him do whatever is all his fault," comes her voice, floating from behind the Chinese screen. "So you're to blame as well, aren't you?"

"Humph," is all you can think to say. 

Once the tub is filled Lyvya heads off to the room and you drop your hastily retied dress, fingers fumbling at the badly knotted strings of your corset. You kick it away, the blue dress the color of Thorin's eyes pooling at your feet as you step into the tub, sighing deeply. 

You frown down at yourself, your lip caught on your teeth. Well, you certainly don't _look_ any different—apart from the dark, finger-shaped bruises on your hips and ribs, and the numerous scattered marks on your neck and upper chest. Not to mention the marks on your wrists and your lips, and on your thighs. 

You look so thoroughly ravished. You feel so thoroughly ravished. 

After your long and indulgent bath, you dry off, dressing in a loose, pale gown, forgoing a corset. You sit on the bed, close your eyes and allow your tiredness to carry you away.

+++

You raise a fist to knock on the door, but before you can it flies open, revealing a very untidy-looking Faryn.

"Y/N," he says, in the somber tone of someone reading aloud a will at a funeral as he bows you inside. "I was expecting you."

"Were you?" You raise a skeptical brow at him and he nods, still somber. "Indeed. I have been thinking of you a great deal for the last few days."

"You only saw me two days ago."

"Be that as it may," he says mysteriously, apparently intent upon keeping up his act and valiantly ignoring your tone, "my mind has been straying to you often for a long while now." 

"Oh?" You hide your smile. 

"Yes," he says, melancholy dripping from every syllable. "I knew you would come here this fateful day, the day after the wedding." He nods sadly. "I knew it."

"And how did you know?"

He raises his eyebrows, wiggling his fingers. "I felt the vibrations around me."

"'Vibrations'," you scoff. "You're a scientist!"

"Am I?" He waggles his eyebrows and you smack his arm. "Faryn, drop it."

"Drop what?" He widens his eyes innocently. "I truly felt the energy pulse within the air, telling me you would be arriving—"

"Faryn, I know why I'm here."

He chokes mid-sentence, his mouth opening. He stares at you, all prior mysteriousness forgotten. "What?"

"I had a dream last night, and I remember it—all of it, including the previous ones. I know what brought me here."

He sits up, suddenly all business. "Tell me," he says. "No, wait! Let me guess." He squints at you. "Was it fate?"

You hesitate. "In a way... No, actually. No, it wasn't."

"Destiny?"

"No."

"Just plain chance?"

"No."

"Then what was it?" He looks wild, his eyes snapping. "What else could it be—?"

"Well... it's not a what so much as a who." You bite your lip. "Something didn't bring me here. Someone did."

There's a slight pause. "It isn't me, is it?" he asks finally. His voice drips sarcasm and you laugh. "No, it isn't. It was... it was Thorin, actually."

He goggles at you. "Thorin?"

You nod. 

"But... how?"

"This may sound a little weird, but... Faryn, Thorin is my One. And apparently the force of the bond was so strong that our worlds fused for a second, and I found my way through. I landed here, just in time for him to find a bride and everything, and his father chose me of all people to marry him... All because I was meant to. I was drawn to him, not this place."

He blinks at you a couple of times. "Your One..." He exhales. "So it's true, then? It exists? It's real?"

You nod sadly. "It's real."

"Did you tell him?"

You shake your head. "I thought I'd keep that to myself, and to you."

"I think that would be wise," he sighs. "So that was the missing component in my equations. Not fate or chance, but love. I had thought as much, but I never connected it with the concept of soul-bonding. Perhaps that will be the object of my next research." He grins at you. "Odd, isn't it, that something as universal as love could have pulled you through universes..."

"I think it's possible," you say. "It's strong enough."

"Oh, it certainly is," he says. "But I just never thought of it."

You laugh. "Well, now you will."

"You're right," he agrees. "Now I will."

You stand up and throw your arms around him, pulling him close. "Thank you, Faryn," you say. "For everything. Without you I'd be totally lost here."

He stiffens for a second, then hugs you back, tightly enough to steal a bit of your breath. "No," he says. "Thank _you_ , Y/N. I may have taught you about science and technology and mathematics, but you taught me lessons far more important. Like trust and belief and confidence, things I'd... Things I never knew I had."

You smile at him, drawing back. "Just because I know why I'm here doesn't mean I'm not going to come visit you anymore," you say. "I'm going to come down here every day and annoy you and cause all kinds of trouble."

He grins at you, his eyes gleaming, navy and violet and ice blue. He's still got the most beautiful eyes of anyone you've ever met. "Well, I'll look forward to it, then," he says. "It was truly a pleasure teaching you, princess Y/N."

You lean forward, dropping a kiss onto his cheek. "Not as much of a pleasure as it was learning from you. You're practically an unsung genius. One day everyone in Middle-earth will know your name."

He blushes. "Now, I wouldn't go that far..."

"And I can brag about the fact that I was your student for a while."

"But you'll be my friend forever, won't you?" He grins at you and you laugh, putting a hand on his shoulder. 

"I sure will," you say.

+++

"Where on earth were you all day?" asks Frerin, leaning back in his chair. He's grinning widely—ever since the wedding two days ago he can't seem to stop smiling. As Thorin had said, it's a pretty good improvement, though he's always smiling; now it's just giddy rather than sarcastic or cynical.

You wave a hand. "Oh, you know. Here, there, everywhere."

"Shall I translate that as 'in Thorin's bedroom', or..." 

You smack his arm, but you don't correct him. "Oh, shut up."

He laughs. "Can't say I don't understand," he says, slinging an arm around his wife sitting next to him, who leans into him, laughing. "It's such a weird feeling, being married," he says. 

"How is it any different from being engaged?" you tilt your head, looking at him. He shrugs. "Besides sharing a room? Not that different, actually," he says. "Physically, at least. Mentally, it's quite the leap."

"There's a lot more responsibility," says Yraena, nodding. "You have to really look out for each other, make sure you're both on different sides of the boat, keeping and ensuring balance. If it tips, you could risk everything."

"Huh." You lean back. "That's a nice way of putting it."

"Comparing our marriage to a boat," snorts Frerin. "Hardly romantic."

She hits his shoulder lightly. "Anyway," she says, "it's just wonderful, above all else." She smiles at you, her face almost glowing. "Though my queenly duties are imminent." She shudders.

"Now, it's not that bad!" says a voice, and you turn to see Dís striding towards you, a beatific grin on her face. "It's actually quite fun, once you get past the meetings and the paperwork."

"Oh, meetings," says Yraena, shuddering again. "I shall die of boredom and lack of preparation."

"Don't be melodramatic," says Dís. "It's really interesting, actually. You get to verbally attack people and get away with it. What better way to exert your authority?"

"Oh, I suppose." She grins at you. "Of course, I won't be alone."

"Nope," you say. "Of course I'll be there, too."

She beams at you. "We can embarrass ourselves together, then."

You laugh. "Agreed."

Frerin sighs. "I'll be king. Mahal, that's terrifying. I can't even be a good prince—Thorin was always better as those kinds of things."

"Well, he'll help," you say equably. "We're all here to be a net if you guys fall," you say. "You can always fall back on us."

"Excellent, reassurance," says Frerin. "Now I can sleep in peace at night."

All of you roll your eyes at the same time. "Really, though," he says. "Thanks. I do need loads of help, I'm rubbish at this sort of stuff."

"Just imagine all the piles of paper, just waiting to be signed and read," says Dís. "The desk life awaits you, Frerin, son of Thrain."

He shudders. "Let's just hope Father doesn't kick the bucket any time soon," he says. "That's sure to prolong my suffering a bit longer."

You and Yraena catch each other's eye, and her lips are pressed together tightly, her eyes glittering. You grin at her, and then, slowly, both of you start to laugh.

+++

"Thorin," you say. "I need to talk to you."

He rolls over on his side, facing you. You're both lying on your bed, and you've just been talking about everything and nothing at all for the past few hours. His eyes crinkle with concern. "What about?"

You take a deep breath. "Why I fell here, in front of the gates. Why I'm here at all."

He frowns at you. "You know?"

You nod. "I've been having these dreams, and... and I finally understood a few days ago what exactly brought me here, and why, and how."

"Well?"

"And... It was you."

He stares at you. "What do you mean, it was me?"

You bite your lip. "You know, a few weeks ago at that party I was talking to you about having a soulmate? A One?"

He nods slowly, his eyes widening. 

"Well... you're mine. My One, that is. And the bond between us sort of brought our universes together for a split second, and I fell through."

"But how..."

"I don't know. But you pulled me here, and I fell from that world to this one, because what connected us was so strong. It was you, all along, even if you didn't know."

A slow look of wonder dawns on his face. "You... you're my One?"

You bite your lip and nod. "I'm yours. I belong to you completely, like I said. It's real, the soul-bond, or whatever you want to call it. It exists, and you're mine."

Slowly, the smallest of smiles tugs on his lips. It's so bright and so beautiful that you feel your own heart lift. "I think I knew it, all along," he says. "From the moment I saw you. But I couldn't tell. I knew that you would change my life." 

You smile back. "Me too," you say. 

He pulls you forward, his mouth sudden and warm on yours. You fall and spin and drown in the kiss, your heart floating in pure bliss as you cling to each other, like he's all that matters to you and you're all that matters to him. 

He draws away, and there's a hectic flush on his cheeks. "I love you," he says.

You smile at him. "I love you, too."

He leans his forehead onto yours. "Y/N," he says. "Will you marry me?"

You blink. "Aren't we already engaged?"

He laughs. "We are. But I never proposed. We said our vows, but I never really asked you, not the way I would have, if things were different. Not the way I should have. Would you let me?"

You nod, and he takes your hand, lacing your fingers with his. "Y/N," he says, clearly, "from the moment I met you you have been everything to me—a source of annoyance, of irritation, of anger; of rebirth and belief and trust; of caring and affection and tenderness; and of love and support and intimacy. I fell in love with you slowly, between one breath and another—or perhaps I loved you all along and only realized it in that one moment, in that dingy little room where we were copying out those invites. You were writing something, and you were entirely focused on the task. I'm sure you haven't noticed, but your tongue pokes out a bit when you're concentrating, and you bite the inside of your lip. I realized then that without you I was nothing, and that I wanted you, more than I had ever wanted anything in my whole life. And yet I was terrified. I didn't know how to tell you, because how can I put it into words, how much you meant to me?" 

He presses a kiss to your fingers. "Then when you realized, and you sought to push me away, I felt panic and fear like I never had before. Losing you was the most terrifying thing I could ever have imagined, and yet it was me who was distancing us. I was a coward, and I'm sorry."

His gaze fixes you in place, burning blue. "I love you. Every day I love you more, even as I think that it is impossible to love you any more than I already do. I love you not only for your beauty, but for the shape of your soul, the depth of your heart. And I know there will never be anyone else for me but you. So, Y/N... Will you marry me?"

A single tear slips down your face as you blink. "Oh, Thorin..." You fling your arms around him, burying your face into his shoulder. "Nobody has ever told me anything so beautiful," you whisper. You look up, nodding at him, feeling love ache in your throat as you look at him, the shimmering blue of his eyes, the faint flush on his cheeks. "Yes, a thousand times, yes," you say. "I love you." 

You grip his shoulders, pressing a kiss to his mouth, hard and quick. You pull away, breathing bard, and smile at him. "Yes," you say again. "I'll marry you."

_The End_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so it ends! What a wild ride this has been, full of drama and angst and feels and fluff. I think acknowledgements are in order:
> 
> I'd love to thank my sister, who is my beta and my best friend, who always shook her head and teased me whenever we saw any of the Hobbit movies and I'd blush when Thorin would come on screen; all my readers, who made this a truly amazing journey and who were a source of inspiration for me and what made all this worth it; to my friends, who would always want to know what happened next, even when I didn't. 
> 
> Thanks to everyone who left kudos, comments and read this, it means so much to me. Thank you all and I love you guys!! <3


End file.
